


A Labor of Love

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: Drama, F/M, Humor, Romance, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:34:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7115620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>from the diary of Mark Darcy, 13 January 2006: “Why do you have to be so inflexible, Mark?” she exclaimed.<br/>“Why do you have to be so irresponsible?” I replied. “It’s hard to let this sort of thing go when it happens all the time. Honestly, Bridget, sometimes I wonder if you’re capable of handling even the simplest things.” <br/>“Well,” said Bridget, leaping to her feet and placing her hands on her hips, her eyes filling with angry tears, “I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do then, because I’m pregnant!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I began writing this just over a year ago, well before the announcement about the third Bridget Jones movie, so this is entirely pre MATB book universe, although I've snuck a few classic film universe references in here and there, because I can. and because...duh. Colin Firth. I wrote much of this during a rather interesting and challenging period of my life, and there were nights when it was all that kept me sane. This story, and Mark's voice, have become very special to me, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Typos are mine, and please be unabashed about Sherlocking me.

A Labor of Love  
by Eggsbenni221, 10 chapters+epilogue  
Rating: T  
Chapter word Count: 5246  
Summary: from the diary of Mark Darcy, 13 January 2006: “Why do you have to be so inflexible, Mark?” she exclaimed.  
“Why do you have to be so irresponsible?” I replied. “It’s hard to let this sort of thing go when it happens all the time. Honestly, Bridget, sometimes I wonder if you’re capable of handling even the simplest things.”  
“Well,” said Bridget, leaping to her feet and placing her hands on her hips, her eyes filling with angry tears, “I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do then, because I’m pregnant!”

Disclaimer: Not my characters. credit where credit is due: Helen Fielding, Colin Firth, ETC., ETC.

Author's Note: I began writing this just over a year ago, well before the announcement about the third Bridget Jones movie, so this is entirely pre MATB book universe, although I've snuck a few classic film universe references in here and there, because I can. and because...duh. Colin Firth. I wrote much of this during a rather interesting and challenging period of my life, and there were nights when it was all that kept me sane. This story, and Mark's voice, have become very special to me, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Typos are mine, and please be unabashed about Sherlocking me.

  


> He wants to be like his Dad! You men,  
> Did you ever think as you pause  
> That the boy who watches your every move  
> Is building a set of laws?  
> He's molding a life you're a model for,  
> And whether it's good or bad  
> Depends on the kind of example set  
> To the boy who'd be like his Dad.  
> Would you have him go everywhere you go?  
> Have him do just the things you do?  
> And see everything that your eyes behold  
> And woo all the things you woo?  
> When you see the worship that shines in the eyes  
> Of your lovable little lad,  
> Could you rest content if he gets his wish  
> And grows to be like his Dad?  
> \- Author unknown, “Like Father, Like Son” 

Sunday 1 January  
11.30 PM  
So begins a new year. As I sit writing this in the spare room in my parents’ house, Bridget lies asleep beside me. I can’t help occasionally allowing my gaze to slide from the page to rest on her, wondering what she sees in her dreams. I hope her dreams are untroubled. If I continue to stare at her, I might never finish writing.  
I wonder what she might think if she knew I’d decided to keep a journal; I suppose she’d tease me relentlessly, so I’ve sworn to myself never to let it fall into her hands. (Poetic justice of sorts if it did though, I suppose, or so she would likely argue). I don’t know precisely what’s motivated my sudden interest in developing the habit, but I’ve often wondered, after long days of work when my mind can’t settle to rest, if writing down my thoughts might offer some way of releasing all of my excess energy.  
In keeping with tradition, Bridget and I have made the journey from London to spend the holiday with our parents—and, of course, the Grafton Underwood conglomerate of extended family—principally Una and Geoffrey Alconbury. If Bridget and I thought that their tireless analysis of our relationship would come to an end once we finally did what everyone suspected was inevitable and got married, we apparently miscalculated dreadfully. When we were single, everyone kept plotting to fix us up; when we started seeing each other, we couldn’t set foot in Grafton Underwood without someone asking us when we planned to get married. I eventually began to worry that everyone might suspect me of proposing to Bridget simply to silence the gossip, except for the fact that it did nothing to stop wagging matriarchal tongues insisting that we set a date and settle down respectably. I ought to have suspected, as no doubt Bridget did, that once we had married, the topic of conversation would turn to the fact that apparently her biological clock was so fast approaching its limit that a warning light had begun to flash on her ovaries.  
I need hardly point out that I don’t subscribe to such prefeminist nonsense myself.  
Frankly, given my marital history and the fact that my relationship with Bridget was not without its difficulties, I felt perfectly content to forego starting a family until we felt comfortably settled as a couple. Then, of course, there was Bridget’s ambivalence about becoming a parent. When we first seriously broached the subject, nothing I said seemed to convince her that, her trouble-magnetism notwithstanding, I had every confidence in her ability to be a wonderful mother. Eventually we arrived at an agreement to lay the subject aside for a time, and only during this past year have we really begun to try in earnest for a baby. Our lack of success has become increasingly frustrating, and Pam and Una have done nothing to help the situation.  
Case-in-point: tonight. As usual, Bridget and I were invited (or coerced into attending) Una and Geoffrey’s turkey curry buffet, at which we’ve somehow become regular guests of honor since Una and Pam remain convinced that their match-making mischief on that fateful New Year’s Day years ago brought us together. For the most part, the evening progressed predictably; after circulating and making obligatory small-talk with everyone present, I withdrew to a corner and became engrossed in a debate about politics with my father, occasionally smiling as my eyes followed Bridget around the room. To give her credit, she holds her own at these gatherings far better than I do.  
Eventually she made her way to my side again, and as she drew near, I noticed her struggling to suppress a yawn. Glancing at my watch and realizing that it wasn’t much past 9.00, I reached for her with some concern.  
“You look tired,” I observed.  
“I am, a bit,” she admitted, leaning into me as I slid an arm around her waist.  
“We can sneak away early, if you’d like.”  
Bridget smiled up at me. “You’d just love that, wouldn’t you? You look extremely bored, Mr Darcy.”  
“I’d hoped it wasn’t that obvious,” I replied. “But since you asked, I’m languishing. And you?”  
“It hasn’t been bad at all, actually.”  
“Really, Bridget?” I asked, one brow raised in skepticism. “How much have you had to drink?” Before she could respond, Una breezed over, and I ought to have anticipated what happened next.  
“Mark! Bridget!” she gushed, swooping in to peck each of us on the cheek. “So delighted you could make it.”  
“Of course,” I answered, slipping Bridget’s hand into mine and giving it a reassuring squeeze.  
“I feel like we’ve not had a proper chat all evening, and I was afraid you might not come, always working.” Una clucked disapprovingly. “Really, that’s no way to start a family. How much longer do you intend to put it off? Can’t wait forever, you know. Tick tock!”  
“There, Bridget!” exclaimed Pam, scooting across the room to insert herself into the conversation. “You see? Una agrees with me. It’s just what I’ve been saying for years, and neither of you is getting any younger. You’ve gotten a late enough start as it is.” The truth forces me to confess that, at nearly 50, I didn’t particularly appreciate the implication that I might become a pensioner before I become a parent, but as I opened my lips to reply, Bridget, not surprisingly, beat me to the punchline with her characteristic forwardness.  
“Well, here’s an idea,” she declared, raising her voice so that nearly everyone in the room could hear, “as it’s the new year, why don’t you all make a resolution to keep your noses out of my uterus!” While everyone reeled from the shock of her words, she dropped my hand and flounced off. Instinctively I made to follow, but paused when I felt a gently restraining hand on my arm, pulling me into a corner, and I turned to face my mother.  
“Let her go, Mark,” she said into my ear.  
“Mother, how can I just—do you honestly expect me to—I have to talk to her.”  
“I’m not telling you not to. Just give her a few minutes alone. Trust me. Then take her home. You’re staying with your father and me tonight, aren’t you?”  
“I—yes, yes, of course, that was the plan, but--”  
“Well, you have a key. Take Bridget back to the house. I’ll make your excuses, although frankly I think there’s little need for any.”  
I sighed, scrubbing my hands over my face in helpless frustration. “This is precisely the sort of scene I’d hoped to avoid,” I said. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take, Mother. I can’t bear watching what it’s doing to Bridget.”  
“I can’t bear watching what it’s doing to you, Mark.” I winced; her words struck dangerously close to the corner of my mind where I’ve carefully concealed my own fears. As we looked at one another, I felt a lump rise to my throat and quickly withdrew my gaze. As I did, my mother leaned in to peck my cheek.  
“It’s going to be all right, Mark,” she whispered. “Go on home. Your father and I will be along later.” With a nod, I patted her hand in gratitude and left in search of Bridget. In the hall, I found her emerging from the bathroom, her face tight and expressionless. She wouldn’t cry—not there, I knew—but when I slipped her into my arms, I felt a hitch in her breathing as she labored to suppress her tears.  
“I’m such an idiot,” she mumbled, resting her head against my chest.  
I smiled. “I don’t think you’re an idiot at all. The remark was well-called for, and in any case, everyone here is quite accustomed to your occasional bouts of verbal incontinence.”  
“Mark, you’re not helping.”  
“I’m sorry, darling,” I murmured, bending to peck her on the lips; up close, I noticed more clearly the lines of fatigue etched on her face. “Do you want to leave?” I asked. Bridget chewed pensively on her lower lip; then nodded.

We made the drive to my parents’ house in silence, Bridget nodding off despite the short distance. After rousing her, I shepherded her inside and upstairs to our room. When I returned several minutes later, having retrieved our belongings from the car, I found her sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed, her eyes unfocused as she gazed through the window. I leaned against the doorframe for several moments, watching her twisting a lock of hair around her index finger. The tension building in the air kept me from crossing the room to her and scooping her into my arms.  
“Bridget?” I murmured. Her gaze flickered in my direction, but she didn’t speak. Stepping away from the door, I perched on the edge of the bed and rested a hand on the small of her back. When she didn’t draw away, I slipped an arm around her and pulled her into my lap. Still silent, she curled her legs beneath her and snuggled against my chest.  
Never knowing Bridget to hold her tongue for so long after an altercation with her mother, I pulled her closer and pressed a kiss to her temple. “You know it doesn’t matter,” I whispered. “What any of them say—none of it matters.” Bridget wrapped her arms around me but still made no reply. “Bridget,” I said, tracing the edge of my thumb in rhythmic circles along her back, “you can tell me what’s bothering you, you know.”  
With a deep breath, Bridget lifted her head and met my eyes. “What if they’re right?” she asked in a barely audible whisper.  
“Right about what, precisely?”  
“Just that--” She hesitated. “What if we’ve—what if I’ve waited too long? What if, no matter how hard we try, we couldn’t now? What if we might have been able to if I’d just listened to you and stopped fussing about accidentally leaving the baby in a shop or something idiotic like that? Because if it’s my fault, Mark…”  
“Oh, Bridget.” As tears filled her eyes, I leaned back on the bed and drew her head to my shoulder. I held her silently for several minutes, my own throat constricting with tears as I stroked her hair.  
“I’m sorry, Mark,” she managed between sniffles. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  
I kissed the top of her head. “You’re tired. That’s all.”  
“Maybe, and everything—everyone—Una and my mum—they just set me off tonight. I always brace myself for it. It’s like I’ve got to put on this emotional armor to deflect all of their babbling, and usually I can, but tonight—I don’t know. It just got under my skin. I hate trying so hard! I hate that we even have to try!” she burst out furiously. “Why is it so easy for some people? Why can’t I ever do anything right?”  
“Bridget, listen to me.” I cradled her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. “This isn’t your fault. You know that, and I can’t stand to see you blaming yourself. You’re not cursed; you’re not unlucky; you’re not being punished for choosing to live your life the way you need to live it, for making decisions that make you—that make us happy. When have I ever blamed you?”  
“You haven’t, but--”  
“Precisely, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks. This is our life. It’s our marriage. We do things according to our timeline. Not your mother’s, and certainly not Una bloody Alconbury’s. This isn’t your fault. Sometimes these things just take time.” I paused. “It isn’t—it isn’t anyone’s fault.”  
“Oh, Mark.” Bridget pulled back and looked up at me, tears still spilling over her cheeks. “Mark, I’m so sorry. God, how insensitive of me.” Knowing what had crossed her mind, I held up a hand to silence her. “No, it isn’t fair,” she protested. “Here I am, going on about my problem when you, I mean…”  
I swallowed. “When the problem could just as easily be me,” I finished.  
“No, that makes it sound like—I didn’t mean--”  
“I know what you meant, Bridget. What’s the point of dancing around it?”  
Bridget sighed. “I know. It’s not that I haven’t thought about—I mean, we haven’t really talked about it…”  
“And I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” I interrupted.  
“Mark,” she whispered, sliding her arms around me, “don’t be like that. Please. You don’t have to pretend with me. If there’s something bothering you, if you need--”  
“Bridget, Don’t. Please.” More roughly than I’d intended, I pulled away from her. “I can’t do this. I just can’t. thinking about it—talking about it—dissecting the problem from every angle, again, and again, and again—it’s so exhausting. So God damn exhausting.” No longer able to resist the threatening tears, I closed my eyes and lowered my head into my hands, a hard knot of pain in the pit of my stomach. Bridget sat quietly beside me, one hand resting on my knee. Regaining control of my breathing, I lifted my head and placed my hand atop hers; then enfolded her in my arms again.  
“You didn’t deserve that,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know what to do any more. It just never occurred to me that I wouldn’t—that I might not be able to—I want to give you everything, Bridget.”  
“Mark, this isn’t just about me. This is about both of us. Isn’t it what you want too? Because if it’s not—if you’ve changed your mind--”  
“Of course it’s what I want,” I insisted. “But The thought that there’s something you need, something you want that isn’t mine to give—I don’t think I could bear that.”  
“You know it isn’t your fault any more than mine, Mark.”  
“I know,” I said, resting my chin on the top of her head. “And it’s not about casting blame; we can’t keep talking about it in that context. Maybe we’re trying too hard. Maybe—maybe, I don’t know; I’ve wondered if we shouldn’t leave off trying for a while. Maybe our own anxiety is the problem.”  
“I’ve thought about that too,” agreed Bridget. “I still want to try, but maybe we’re overthinking this. And in the end, whatever happens, we have each other. That’s all I really need.”  
I kissed her. “That’s all I’ve ever really needed.”  
“I wonder,” said Bridget as we drew apart, “if my mother will ever stop harping on the issue?”  
“Probably not,” I said. “And be honest. You’d start to worry about her if she stopped.”  
“You’re more right than I want to admit,” said Bridget. She tilted her head up to kiss me; then disentangled herself from my arms and stood, signaling her intention to ready herself for bed. Given our rather somber moods, I didn’t initially anticipate amorous activities appearing on the evening’s agenda. Yet as I slipped beneath the duvet, I couldn’t help allowing my gaze to slide over Bridget’s form. Standing before the mirror, she frowned at her reflection, though I observed nothing untoward about the lacy negligee that hugged her hips and offered a favorable view of her breasts. I recognized it not as a recent purchase, but one I gave her a number of years ago—well-worn and slightly frayed at the edges, and just the thought of its soft cotton against my fingers always brings a smile.  
Noticing my eyes on her, Bridget met my gaze in the mirror. “Is something wrong?” she asked, her frown deepening.  
“Hardly. In fact, your relentless self-scrutiny puzzles me exceedingly.”  
“I just wondered—I mean, do I look a bit fat?” Fortunately, I had the good sense not to roll my eyes, as my reflection would have caught the expression. Frankly, I never know how to respond to this question. It always seems like a trap of some sort. In truth (and in my entirely unbiased opinion) Bridget was looking particularly ravishing tonight, but years of practice in marital diplomacy have taught me that there are far cleverer ways to convince her of this truth than boldly complimenting her.  
“If that’s an invitation for me to have a closer look,” I said casually, “I accept.” When she didn’t appear to have heard me, I slid from bed and crossed the room to stand behind her. Wrapping my arms around her, I pulled her to my chest and bent to nuzzle her neck. “Come to bed, Mrs Darcy.” Turning to face me, Bridget rose on her toes and locked her mouth on mine. I need hardly record in detail what followed, but sufficed to say, if my intention was to cheer my wife, I believe I succeeded.  
As Bridget drifted off to sleep, she reached out a hand and linked her fingers through mine. “Mark?”  
“Yes?”  
“Mark, do you think we’ll ever, you know…” Her voice faltered.  
Gently I raised her hand and traced my lips along her palm. “It’s going to be all right, Bridget. whatever happens, it’s going to be all right.”  
I can’t deny to myself that anxiety about the future—about our ability to have the family we want—sometimes plagues me, but at the end of the day, we have each other, and really, this is what matters most. All in all, turkey curry buffet fiasco notwithstanding, not an altogether bad start to the year.

 

Thursday 12 January  
10.00 PM

The first few weeks of the New Year have largely proceeded without incident, serving up the usual weighty portions of work and wintery weather. I must apparently have offended some deity or other, however, because I’ve been roped into attending a dinner party hosted by my least-favorite colleague at chambers: Louise Barton-Foster. I can think of far less painful ways to spend an evening, some of which involve self-inflicted paper cuts and bathing in lemon juice, but as everyone else at chambers plans to attend, they shall certainly notice my absence.  
Bridget has been acting oddly the last week or two—tired and out of sorts, and she complained of feeling poorly this morning. I’ve told her not to worry about tomorrow and that I’ll suffer through the dreadful dinner at Louise’s on my own, but she’s insisted she’ll be perfectly fine, and really, aside from a bit of minor stomach upset, there seems nothing particularly the matter. We’ll just have to see how she feels tomorrow.

 

Friday 13 January  
7.15 PM

Good god! I’ve been an idiot. What have I just done? My rational mind has never quite held with all of that superstitious nonsense about Friday the 13th, but I shan’t forget this one in a hurry. I don’t know if the thoughts racing through my brain at the moment will slow down long enough for me to give a coherent account of what’s just happened, but I must sort through everything somehow.  
When I left for chambers this morning, Bridget seemed slightly improved, though she had decided, as a precaution, to work from home. I still thought it my duty as a supportive husband to remind her that she could withdraw her offer to accompany me to Louise Barton-Foster’s dinner party. After giving her clear instructions to ring or text me if she changed her mind later in the day, I left for work and, once at chambers, forgot entirely about the evening’s engagement in the flurry of meetings, filing briefs, and an afternoon in court. Only when Louise reminded me did I recall the commitment.  
To cheer myself on the drive home, I indulged in a pleasant few minutes wondering what Bridget might decide to wear for the evening, mostly because I felt sure that the more I focused on her during dinner, the less likely I would be to roll my eyes at the insipid conversation. Since I had to return to chambers after court, I arrived home a bit later than planned and hoped that, by some miracle, Bridget might have finished dressing. To my dismay, however, I found her in the bathroom, perched on the edge of the tub, her face tense as she stared down at her lap. I hesitated in the doorway, sensing a thick, tangible tension in the air.  
“Bridget?” I said gently. When she didn’t lift her head, I spoke more forcibly. “Bridget, are you all right?” Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head. When she raised her eyes to meet mine, her gaze seemed oddly unfocused, as if she didn’t quite register my presence in the doorway. “Bridget, we’re going to be late if you don’t get a move on.”  
“I’m—not sure I can go, after all,” she whispered. I sighed and raked a hand through my hair, endeavoring to suppress my rising frustration from the strain of the day. Bridget’s last-minute change of mind hardly surprised me, and yet I felt irritated nonetheless.  
“I wish you had told me, because I was already a bit behind time, and I’d considered driving straight to the dinner from chambers, but of course, it never would have occurred to you to pick up the phone and let me know you’d suddenly changed your mind.”  
Bridget’s eyes snapped into focus, and she fixed me with an icy glare. “You could be a bit more understanding,” she accused.  
“I’d like to be, Bridget, but I distinctly recall telling you before I left this morning that if you didn’t feel up to coming with me tonight, you need only have let me know.”  
“Why do you have to be so inflexible, Mark?” she exclaimed.  
“Why do you have to be so irresponsible?” I replied. “It’s hard to let this sort of thing go when it happens all the time. Honestly, Bridget, sometimes I wonder if you’re capable of handling even the simplest things.”  
“Well,” said Bridget, leaping to her feet and placing her hands on her hips, her eyes filling with angry tears, “I don’t know what the fuck we’re going to do then, because I’m pregnant!” I stared at her, my eyes riveted on her lips as she spoke. In hindsight, her behavior these past weeks revealed itself to me with such obvious clarity that I wondered how I could have missed the signs: her irritability, her uncharacteristic tiredness, her inexplicable bouts of illness that dissipated as quickly as they’d appeared. Yet the words sounded foreign to my ears, shimmering in the air between us like wisps of a dream we couldn’t quite catch hold of. I could feel my mind reaching out for something solid to cling to, and as my eyes swept the room, I saw the pregnancy test beside the sink, large and looming amidst the clutter of toothbrushes and razors. I wondered briefly when Bridget had done the test and why she hadn’t wanted me to be with her, though I suspected it wasn’t the most appropriate moment to raise the question.  
“Bridget,” I said finally, “I don’t—you—you’re--what?”  
“I think you heard me the first time, Mark,” she said softly.

God, I’ve been a Bloody idiot. Of course I wish now I hadn’t said what I did about Bridget being incapable of handling responsibility, but isn’t that why we’re always advised to count to ten before speaking when we’re angry. With no clue how to dig myself out of the hole I’d managed to create, I left Bridget to compose herself and came back downstairs to try to sort out the mess in my head in solitude. Reaching for a bottle of scotch, I poured myself a generous measure and downed it quickly, allowing the alcohol to burn away the tension building in my chest.  
“Bridget is pregnant,” I murmured to the empty room. “We’re going to have a baby.” I shivered; ‘baby.’ As I spoke the word, sounding it out, testing its validity, I tasted fear pooling at the back of my throat with the scotch. Our discussion on New Year’s day now seems to have been an ironic reminder of how little we are in control of the whims of nature. There we were, on the point of abandoning the endeavor, and already, without our knowledge, nature was quietly at work dispelling our fears. Without the reality of an actual child, the word has always seemed to float in the air between us—a shimmering, insubstantial soap-bubble of a notion. If I can feel the weight of it, the substance of it settling on my shoulders, I can’t even begin to imagine what Bridget must feel—literally and figuratively speaking. How can I accuse her of being irresponsible when here I sit, hiding from the reality of what we’re about to face—a reality, more importantly, that I claim to have been longing for with such intensity that to think of it sometimes feels like a physical ache? Is this the sort of man—the sort of father—I want to be?

 

11.30 PM

I’m still marveling at how much my life has altered in the past few hours, and I feel at once elated and nauseated by the conflicting emotions swirling around inside me like an inexpertly mixed cocktail. As I sat alone, I rested my head on my hand, turning Bridget’s news over and over in my mind. Strange, I thought, how intensely I had longed to hear her speak those words; just days ago, I was worrying that the moment would never come to pass. As I replayed our conversation on New Year’s Day, the reality of our situation rushed upon me in a dizzying wave of relief.  
“My God,” I whispered. “We’re going to have a baby. It’s all right. We’re all right.”  
“I know.” I lifted my head at the sound of Bridget’s voice and turned to see her standing behind me. Our gazes locked; I rose and took a step toward her, and the next moment she was in my arms, her hands clasped behind my head as her mouth sought mine. I pulled her down onto the sofa beside me, tears of relief and joy blurring my vision as I held her close.  
“It’s all right,” she said, echoing my words. “We’re all right.”  
“Bridget,” I murmured, combing my fingers through her hair. “Darling, darling Bridget.”  
“You’re really happy?” she asked, pressing her cheek against mine.  
“Happy? God, yes! I’m so sorry—about what I said to you, about my immediate reaction. I didn’t mean to seem so—indifferent.”  
She smiled up at me. “Well, I can’t say I blame you. I don’t suppose I should have sprung it on you like that.”  
“It was—well, rather a shock,” I admitted. “Odd, really, considering—well…”  
“Considering we’ve been trying for it for ages, but you’ve sort of conditioned yourself not to expect it,” Bridget finished. Reluctantly I nodded. “It’s funny,” she continued. “I was starting to suspect just after we talked about, you know, leaving things alone for a while. I might have begun to suspect sooner, if I weren’t in denial. God--” she giggled. “It’s almost funny to think of it now—that whole time Mum and Una were going on about the fact that my ovaries were probably going to shrivel up and die any moment, and I was already pregnant!”  
“They’re going to be utterly unbearable when they find out,” I said.  
“My mum will probably take all of the credit,” Bridget laughed. “Like she was working some weird incantation on my uterus or something.”  
I groaned. “Don’t put it past her. Your mother is just insane enough to think that.”  
“It’s still so hard to believe though. I mean, it’s one thing to talk about, but now I’ve got this—this thing, this little person inside me and I don’t know how I can—how I’m going to—I’m so scared, Mark.”  
“And you think I’m not?”  
“Mark, you’re never scared.”  
“Well, I’m sorry to have to disappoint you in this instance, but I’ll have you know I’m terrified.”  
Bridget slipped her arms around me. “You’re going to be a wonderful father, at least—if you’re sure, if you’re absolutely still sure it’s what you want. Is it?”  
For answer, I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her. “Of course it’s what I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”  
We fell silent as I held her against me, my hands working at the knots of tension in her shoulders. I wondered if, like me, she was imagining the tiny person forming inside her—nestled between us like a precious secret. I wondered if, like me, she was sketching its form, imagining the touch of tiny fingers, wondering if she’ll have my eyes or if he’ll have Bridget’s smile. Still, beneath the excitement lay a small kernel of resentment—one I knew I had to examine and discard before it rubbed away at the shine of what should have been one of the happiest moments of our marriage.  
“Bridget?” I murmured.  
“Mmm?”  
“Bridget, why didn’t you wait for me; to do the pregnancy test, I mean? I would have been here—if I’d had any idea you suspected—I’d have wanted to be with you.”  
Bridget sighed. “I’m sorry about that. I should have told you.” She reached up to brush her fingertips against my cheek. “It’s just, you know, we’ve been disappointed before. I didn’t want to get your hopes up and then dash them again. I thought if I wasn’t, you’d never need to know, never need to feel the disappointment, and we’d just keep trying if we wanted to.”  
Slipping her hand into mine, I raised it to my lips and kissed it. “That’s not how it works, Bridget,” I answered. “Whatever we do, we do it together.”  
“Well, I’ve got to have an appointment with the doctor. Just to make certain. You’ll come with me?”  
“Of course.” I caressed her cheek; then gently slid my hand down her side to rest on her waist before bending my head to kiss her again. “I love you, Bridget.”  
“I love you too, Mark.”  
Eventually we made our way to bed, and I’ve been lying awake for hours, watching Bridget, holding her, imagining the rhythm of the tiny heart that must be beating in time with hers. It’s a refreshing change, for once, to find sleep eluding me for a pleasant reason. If I thought the events of my life lacked the kind of literary merit worthy of daily record, that seems about to change. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (MATB SPOILERS!!): While we don't know the exact month and day of Billys birthday in MATB, we do know that Colin Jones gets to see him before his passing; the timeline also seems to indicate that Colin's cancer diagnosis came some time during Bridget's pregnancy. For a number of very personal reasons, I don't go into a lot of extreme detail, but I wanted to explore the way that Bridget sifts through her emotions about her dad's illness during the pregnancy and, more particularly, the role that Mark would have played in supporting her.

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters+epilogue  
Rating: T  
Chapter Word Count: 4528  
Summary: See [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)  


Author's Note: (MATB SPOILERS!!): While we don't know the exact month and day of Billys birthday in MATB, we do know that Colin Jones gets to see him before his passing; the timeline also seems to indicate that Colin's cancer diagnosis came some time during Bridget's pregnancy. For a number of very personal reasons, I don't go into a lot of extreme detail, but I wanted to explore the way that Bridget sifts through her emotions about her dad's illness during the pregnancy and, more particularly, the role that Mark would have played in supporting her.

> He said, ‘I know that you’re afraid, and I am too  
> But you’ll never be alone, I promise you.’  
> When you’re weak, I’ll be strong.  
> When you let go, I’ll hold on.  
> When you need to cry, I swear that I’ll be there to dry your eyes.  
> When you feel lost and scared to death  
> Like you can’t take one more step  
> Take my hand, together we can do it.  
> I’m gonna love you through it.  
> \- Martina McBride, “I’m Gonna Love you Through it”

Monday 23 January  
10.00 PM

  
First appointment with the doctor today. Bridget is positively, officially pregnant, so much so that we were able to hear baby’s heartbeat. How wonderful—how miraculous—that such a tiny flutter can be the source of such enormous joy.

 

Wednesday 25 January  
8.00 PM

  
Nothing particularly earth-shattering to report, which, all things considered, I suppose I should count as a blessing. Frankly, I’m relieved I’ve not had to confiscate all of the wine in the house and padlock the liquor cabinet, but I suppose I should give Bridget more credit for guarding her health and—the baby’s. I’ve still not quite got used to the sound of it.  
We’ve nearly got through week nine, though Bridget continually points out (and no doubt Sharon will agree once we’ve shared the news with the urban family) that I really have no right to claim participation in any of this beyond sowing the seed, so to speak. I suppose I can’t disagree, though I would point out that bearing the brunt of female hormone fluctuations requires a certain amount of diplomacy. Given that we only discovered that Bridget is pregnant about two weeks ago, I can’t quite get my head round the notion that baby has been in existence, albeit invisibly, for just over two months. It feels a bit like we’ve been harboring a houseguest entirely without our knowledge. I keep wondering why this comes as such a shock; it’s not as if we haven’t been trying for it, as Bridget constantly reminds me. I find myself alternately elated and on the verge of becoming violently ill with nerves, the latter of which I feel compelled to keep to myself for fear of Bridget teasing me about sympathy morning sickness or something. (God, that isn’t medically possible, is it? Best not to think about it).  
We decided at first to keep the news to ourselves, in part to just spend a bit of time savoring it with some measure of privacy and in part because these first few months are, according to the doctor, the most risk-filled. Bridget is healthy, thank heaven, and at least she’s made the effort to quit smoking, so we haven’t got that particular complication to contend with. She’s even tapered off on drinking, for the most part, during this last year or two while we’ve been trying for the baby, which makes my job considerably easier. I didn’t fancy having to wrestle her for the chardonnay.  
After some consideration, however, and perhaps through a desire to unburden her guilty conscience, Bridget suggested that we at least tell our parents, so we drove to Grafton Underwood this past weekend for Sunday lunch to give the four of them the news. My parents were overjoyed, Colin was quietly pleased, and Pam was utterly unbearable. She kept after Bridget the entire afternoon about prenatal vitamins and proper dieting and the appropriate amount of weight to gain, and I gave Bridget tremendous credit for not strangling her with a tea towel. Still, as much as I’d like to believe that Bridget won’t go off the deep end and mutate into something resembling a mum-zilla, I’ve decided to clear some space on our bookshelves in anticipation of the addition of every parenting self-help book ever published to her already extensive collection.  
The oddest thing, really, was Colin; he and Bridget have always been especially close, and I knew the news about the baby would please him. He’s been looking rather poorly the last few times we’ve visited—lost quite a noticeable amount of weight and seems very tired—and Bridget confided to me that she wanted to tell her parents about the pregnancy partially in the hope that it might cheer Colin a bit. I think she’s rather more concerned about him than she’d like to admit, even to herself, and after my conversation with him on Sunday, I’ve begun to suspect as well that something is amiss.  
During our visit, I frequently observed Colin and Bridget sitting close together on the sofa, his eyes full of a kind of wistful tenderness as he held her hand and listened to her excited chatter. As we prepared to take our leave, Colin seized the opportunity while Bridget exchanged goodbyes with my parents and drew me aside.  
“Mark,” he whispered, “I wondered—could I have a quick word?”  
“Of course,” I answered.  
“I didn’t want Bridget to overhear,” said Colin, casting a furtive glance in her direction.  
“Is everything all right?” I asked, endeavoring to suppress the prickle of unease rising in the back of my throat.  
“I’m—afraid not.”  
“What is it? What’s wrong?”  
“Not here,” he insisted. “Not now. I wondered—could I meet you for lunch this week? I know you’re terribly busy, but do you think you could get away from the office for a bit on Friday?”  
I mentally sifted through my schedule for the week ahead. “I think so. I’m sure I can shift my appointments around.”  
“I appreciate it, Mark, and--” Colin hesitated. “I wonder, if you wouldn’t mind…” he paused, his gaze shifting back to Bridget.  
“Colin, I don’t like the idea of keeping anything from Bridget,” I whispered, interpreting the meaning of his glance.  
Colin held up a hand. “I’m not asking you to,” he assured me. “Not ultimately. I thought Pamela and I could come together. We thought she might ring Bridget and suggest an afternoon of shopping or something like that. Then we can spend the evening together, and I can—but I’ll explain more when I see you. With the baby coming now, Pamela will always be finding excuses to pop round anyway, so Bridget shouldn’t be terribly suspicious.”  
In spite of myself, I smiled. “Yes, this is entirely plausible. But are you sure—I mean, if there’s anything the matter, Bridget will want to know. I’m sure she will.”  
“I don’t want to upset her,” said Colin, his voice catching on the words. “And I’ll need your help when I—God, I’m being bloody cryptic. I’ll explain everything on Friday.”  
Not entirely satisfied, I shrugged. “Right then. Until Friday.” I’ve no idea what’s going on, but something tells me this isn’t going to end well.

 

Thursday 26 January  
9.15 PM

  
¾ of the way through the first trimester. If all continues normally, we’ll tell the urban family in a few weeks. According to calculations, baby measures approx. 1-1.5 inches in length. So small; yet so miraculously alive. It seems incredible that something that can fit in the palm of my hand—something no larger than a bean—has a brain and a heart, and tiny fingers and toes, like pieces of a puzzle slowly coming together. Bridget got it into her head earlier that since the umbilical cord will have developed at this point, perhaps it might due to introduce the baby to the taste of a Bloody Mary. I didn’t find this suggestion particularly amusing, until Bridget laughed and assured me that of course she was joking. (Obviously. I knew this. Why does everyone seem to think I’m in need of a sense of humor transplant?).  
I’m meeting Colin for lunch tomorrow; Bridget is spending the day with Pam, and to her credit, she seems to be looking forward to it. I expect that the pregnancy might form the means of strengthening the mother/daughter bond. I wish I felt less apprehensive about whatever Colin has to confide in me; how does one prepare for something with no idea of what to expect?

 

Friday 27 January  
10.30 PM

  
Today has transpired to be one of the most emotionally exhausting days of my entire life. I’ve still not quite taken it all in, and Bridget—god, I can’t do this right now. Perhaps when my mind has settled. More later.

 

1.00 AM

  
Bridget has finally fallen asleep. As for me, I very much doubt I’ll be able to settle. Whether or not Bridget will really get a decent night’s rest, I have no idea, but she’s asleep now, and temporary relief is better than none at all, I suppose.  
Last night I wondered how to prepare for what I would have to face today; now, of course, I realize that nothing could have prepared me for what lies ahead. I met Colin for lunch as planned and decided to take my conversation cues from him. This unfortunately meant spending the entire meal in suspense, hardly tasting what I swallowed. Colin pointedly stepped around the elephant in the room; we spoke about my work, about how Bridget is feeling, about parenthood in general, about politics—frankly I think we exhausted every topic for small talk imaginable.  
Eventually, as we stared down at our noticeably untouched plates, I cleared my throat, deciding to steer the conversation in its intended direction. “Colin, forgive me if this seems forward, but you didn’t ask me to meet you for an afternoon of male bonding over stake and kidney pie. What’s going on?”  
Colin gazed out the window for several moments, took a sip of water, and then slowly met my eyes. “I was rather hoping to come at this another way,” he said, “but Pam was right. There’s nothing for it I suppose but to just—come out with it.” He paused, swallowed, fiddled with his wedding ring, then drew a deep breath. “I have lung cancer, Mark.” As I sit here, reflecting on the day’s events, trying to piece everything together in writing, it amazes me that a single word, a mere two syllables of sound, can shatter the tranquility of life with the force of a nuclear explosion.  
I sat in silence for a full minute, perhaps longer, before finally stammering, “I—you don’t mean—this is…”  
“Mad? Unfair? Downright Bloody cruel?” supplied Colin. “I’ve said it all, Mark. Believe me.”  
“All of the above,” I agreed. “Is it—I mean, it’s--treatable, surely?”  
“I’d really rather not go into all of the details now,” he replied.  
I nodded. “Of course. I understand, and I’m sure Bridget will—oh God. Bridget.” I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. “Colin, I—you’re not expecting—You can’t mean--” I swallowed. “Please don’t tell me you want me to—to tell her?”  
Colin shook his head. “No, good God, of course not. I just thought I’d, well, prepare you. I’m going to need your help.”  
“I know you’re concerned about her, especially right now,” I said, “but I know Bridget. She’s going to react—of course she’s going to react, but I also know that she’s not going to let whatever she’s feeling—the fear, the anger, the sadness, whatever it is—she’s not going to let any of it cripple her. I know—I know how much she loves you, and the only thing that’s going to matter to her is being there for you.”  
Colin smiled. “She does have a bit of a flair for the dramatic, but maybe it’s more sensible to just let that wave of emotion take you—to ride it out, and then when it settles, just look at the situation more clearly.”  
“It took me a few years to understand that about her,” I admitted. “I always saw that knee-jerk reaction, that first wave of intense feeling, as unproductive, maybe because I’m such a pragmatist. I think and act first, and then, when whatever coping mechanisms need to be in place are in order, I allow myself to feel.”  
“I think that’s why you’re so good for each other,” said Colin. “You sort of—I don’t know—balance each other’s emotional scales, and I think at times like this, that’s really important. It seems silly to say that I want to avoid upsetting Bridget, because really there’s no way to avoid that. I just thought, if you knew, if you were prepared, it might help; it might steady her a bit.”  
I nodded, though at that precise moment, I didn’t feel particularly steady myself. “You’re going to tell her tonight?” I asked finally.  
“Yes. I don’t know—I don’t know how to tell her. God knows I wish I didn’t have to. Maybe,” he offered me a sad smile, “maybe you can lift the alcohol ban, just for tonight?”  
Reluctantly I returned his smile. “Don’t think that hasn’t occurred to me.” Noticing then how weary Colin appeared, I stole a glance at my watch. “I’ve got just enough time to drop you at the house before I head back to chambers, unless you’d rather have a bit of company. I can just as easily work at home.”  
Colin shook his head. “No, that’s all right. I think I’ll have a rest. I’ve still got the rest of the day to get through.” I nodded. As I signaled for the bill, Colin reached across the table to grasp my hand. “Mark, I just, well… thank you.”  
“There’s no need to thank me,” I murmured. “I’ll do anything I can. You only have to ask.”  
“I was always glad Bridget married you, Mark. I don’t—I don’t have to worry about her now.” I felt a lump rise to my throat and, at a loss for words, I merely pressed his hand in response.

For once in my life, I felt grateful for the mountain of work awaiting me on my desk when I returned to chambers as it gave me an excuse to plunge into a mind-numbing abyss. By the time I left for home, my eyes burned, my head ached, and I contemplated how much alcohol I’d require to survive the evening with what remained of my sanity intact. As a general rule, I adjust my alcohol intake in direct proportion to the decibel level of my mother-in-law’s voice. Tonight, however, I’d resolved to show greater reserve and patience given the circumstances, and in any case, I’d be of much better use to Bridget with my faculties unencumbered. When I arrived at the house, I found Colin flicking through channels on the television with the volume turned down; he gestured wordlessly as I entered the room to where Bridget had curled up at the other end of the sofa, apparently fast asleep. I stood gazing at her for several moments, wishing there were some way to keep her nestled in the warm cocoon of blissful ignorance. I bent and touched my lips to her forehead, at which her eyes half-opened.  
“Mark, you’re home,” she said, smiling groggily.  
“Tiring day?” I asked, thinking it hadn’t truly even begun.  
Bridget nodded, propping herself on one elbow to kiss me before snuggling back into the cushions. “I suppose I really ought to do something about supper, but moving seems like it requires a lot more energy than it’s worth at the moment.”  
“You just relax,” I said. “I’ll deal with supper.”  
“I wouldn’t go into the kitchen if I were you,” Colin spoke up as I turned to leave the room.  
“Dare I ask why?”  
“Mum,” Bridget replied succinctly, melting my heart as she exchanged a smile with Colin.  
“Well,” I said, squaring my shoulders, “I’ll have to risk it. That’s where the alcohol is.” Colin, I noted with some amusement, had already supplied himself with a drink. “I’ll bring you a glass of wine,” I said to Bridget, casting a wink over my shoulder as I headed toward the kitchen.  
Bridget narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Really?” I smiled back at her, holding up one finger to emphasize my point.

As I entered the kitchen, I found Pam rummaging through the cupboards, muttering to herself. She’s never quite got used to the setup here, but, confidentially, neither had I until Bridget rescued me, even if she’s generally more adept at locating a corkscrew than a tea-strainer.  
“Goodness, how on earth do they ever find anything in this kitchen? We’ll be lucky to have a hot meal on the table before next Christmas.”  
“Are you looking for something particular?” I inquired.  
Pam leapt back from the cupboard, a hand pressed to her heart as she spun round to face me. “Mark! Oh my godfathers! How you startled me! I just—heavens, it’s just such a jumble. I only wanted—you wouldn’t know where I can find a potato-peeler, would you?”  
I shrugged. “I’m sure it’s round here somewhere. I’ll have a look for you, if you like. Just give me half a second.” I quickly retrieved a corkscrew from a nearby drawer and reached to uncork the bottle of wine that sat atop the counter. In response to Pam’s raised eyebrow, I smiled. “You can’t be married to Bridget for as long as I have without some adjustment in the way you prioritize your domestic organization. The ease with which you can locate any item in this kitchen is directly proportionate to the frequency of its use, hence corkscrew accessibility,” I explained. “You really needn’t go to such trouble though,” I continued. “I could have managed.”  
“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Pam. “Don’t be silly! I’ve got to do something, you know. I thought a lovely shepherd’s pie—very comforting. Just what we…” her voice faltered, and her eyes welled with tears. After a moment’s hesitation, I crossed to her, placed my hands on her shoulders, and guided her into a chair. “Colin’s—Colin’s told you, I suppose?” she asked, hiccupping. I nodded. “Oh, Mark, what are we going to do?”  
I sighed. “I don’t know. What can we do? Take each day as it comes, I suppose. We have to be realistic, of course, and the first shock of it is frightening, but I’ve had some time to process the news, and I really think that for everyone’s sake, hope is our best defense mechanism right now.”  
Pam wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’re right, Mark. Of course you’re right. I think,” she offered a weak smile, “I think that’s why Colin wanted you to know before we told Bridget. You’re so wonderfully sensible, but I worry about Bridget. She’s going to be devastated, and the baby--”  
“I’ll worry about Bridget,” I said gently. “Your first priority right now is Colin, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that Bridget won’t want to be shielded from any of this. If she’s going to be able to offer any kind of support to Colin, she’s going to need to arm herself with the truth. We can’t pretend this isn’t happening, not least because hiding it isn’t precisely an option available to us.”  
“I know that,” agreed Pam. “but her health is paramount right now. The anxiety this is going to create for her--”  
“You don’t need that burden either, if you don’t mind me saying so,” I pointed out. “Leave Bridget to me. I’ll take care of her. I promise.”  
“Oh, Mark, God bless you.” Slowly Pam rose to her feet and, before I quite had time to process the gesture, she gave my cheek an awkward pat; then turned to resume her search for the potato-peeler.  
“Look,” I said, gesturing to the abandoned meal preparations. “Why don’t you just leave all of this? I can sort it all out later.” Reluctantly Pam nodded and followed me from the kitchen.

We returned to find Bridget snuggled against Colin on the sofa, both of them laughing as they flicked through baby pictures of Bridget.  
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, wincing. “Even then I was a bit fat.”  
Colin bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You were perfect, love,” he whispered. “You still are.”  
Glancing up as she reached over to hug him, Bridget noticed that Pam and I had reentered the room. “Mum. Come look. Dad and I were just--” She paused as she caught sight of her mother’s face. “Shit, Mum, what’s wrong?” My mobile chose that inconvenient moment to demand my attention, and I hurriedly withdrew it from my pocket, cursing silently as I shut it off. Deciding to rid myself of the disturbance or the temptation to check it when I knew my attention would be demanded elsewhere, I left the room and tossed the offending object on the desk in my office without even glancing at the display. I returned to the living-room just in time to catch Bridget’s strangled sob as her hands flew to her mouth and she began to tremble. Fearing she might collapse, I crossed the room to her side and wound my arms around her, half-guiding, half-carrying her back to the sofa.  
“This isn’t happening!” she cried. “This can’t be happening! Not this! Not now! Tell me this isn’t happening.” As her eyes pleaded with me, the tears I had been fighting began to blur my vision, and I pulled her closer, endeavoring to murmur reassurances while burying my face in her hair to conceal my own anguish.  
“It’s all right,” I whispered helplessly as I cradled her against me. “It’s all right. There, Love. Hush now. It’s all right.”  
Slowly Bridget composed herself with several deep breaths, and she drew back, turning to her father. “How long have you—known?” she asked, her voice shaking.  
“Not long,” replied Colin.  
“I don’t—this is--”  
“We know it’s a shock, dumpling,” murmured Pam.  
“But you’re going to fight it,” said Bridget, a flash of defiance in her eyes that made me smile even as the strength it cost her to summon that defiance made my heart ache.  
“You have to fight, Dad.”  
Colin patted her hand. “You know I’ll do my best, poppet,” he whispered. “Can’t miss this baby everyone’s been talking about, after all.”  
Bridget leaned forward and hugged him tightly. “I love you, Dad,” she said, kissing his cheek.  
“I love you too, darling.” Bridget gave his hand a squeeze before standing and crossing the room to her mother. Pam opened her arms, and Bridget went into her embrace without hesitation. Sensing that the three of them needed a few moments, I slipped from the room and returned to the kitchen. I’d just begun to take stock of whatever I might be able to transform into an edible meal when I heard footsteps behind me and felt Bridget slide her arms around my waist. She looked up at me as I turned round to face her, tears sparkling in her eyes.  
“You knew, didn’t you?” she whispered.  
“I did, yes. Your father told me this afternoon. I’m sorry if--”  
“Don’t apologize, Mark. I understand. I’m glad, actually; someone’s got to keep a calm head around here.”  
I smiled. “Your father isn’t doing too badly.”  
“No, you’re right. Still, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mark.”  
Pulling her closer, I bent and touched my lips to hers. “Fortunately for you, that’s not something you need to worry about,” I said, brushing the pad of my thumb across her cheek. “And you also don’t need to worry about dinner. Go on back to your parents, and take this with you,” I added, handing her the bottle of wine I’d uncorked earlier. “And mind you don’t overdo it.”  
Bridget rose on her toes to kiss me. “Promise.”

We spent the remainder of the evening talking about anything and everything except Colin’s diagnosis, because, truthfully, we didn’t need to; it was the period at the end of every sentence we uttered; the lull in the conversation each time one of us mentioned the baby. We have reason to hope, of course, and so hope we shall. Colin and Pam have decided to stay the night with us and head back to Grafton Underwood in the morning. After they went up to bed for the night, I decided to put the kitchen to rights, in need of some mundane task that would free my mind to sift through the day’s events. As I scrubbed the last wine glass, I made a note to remind Bridget that we needed more washing-up liquid; these things—these little domestic rituals—so insignificant and yet such powerful reminders that life rolls along at its own pace, however much we might want to pause the clock. When I left the kitchen, I found Bridget still seated on the sofa, chin in her hands, her eyes vacant.  
“Bridget?” She continued to stare into space, appearing not to have heard me. “It’s late, darling. You’re exhausted. Why don’t you come up to bed?” When she remained silent, I knelt in front of her, taking her hands in mine. “Bridget, come. You need to get some sleep.” Her hands trembled in mine, but she otherwise remained motionless. “Bridget, sweetheart, look at me. Please.”  
Slowly she turned to meet my gaze. “It’s—I think it’s really just started to sink in,” she said. Taking a seat beside her, I slid my arms around her and pulled her onto my lap. As I held her, stroking her back as she cried quietly into my chest, all of the words I tried to summon sounded dreadfully inadequate. I wanted to tell her that everything would be all right; that her father needed her to be strong; that the baby needed her to be strong. Instead I pulled her closer and rested my cheek against the top of her head.  
“I’m sorry,” Bridget sniffled, brushing tears away with her wrists.  
I took her hand, giving it a squeeze as I brought it to my lips. “Sh. Don’t talk like that. You have nothing to feel sorry for.”  
“I keep telling myself that acting like this is admitting defeat, in a way; Dad’s not giving up, so we’ve all got to hold on too. I just—I just keep thinking about the baby and—Mark, I can’t bear the idea that…”  
I nodded. “I know, my love,” I murmured. “I know.”  
“I know it’s important to be strong—that I have to be strong, but I just—don’t know if I can right now.”  
“Allowing yourself to feel isn’t giving way to weakness,” I replied. “You’ll find the strength when you need to; you know you will, and I know you will.” I paused, stroking her damp cheek with my fingertips. “And when it all seems like it’s too much, well, that’s what I’m here for.”  
Bridget wrapped her arms around me and rested her cheek against mine. “I love you, Mark.”  
“I love you too,” I whispered. I recall thinking, before the events of these past few weeks began to unfold, that knowing we have each other sometimes seems like the only durable thread of hope we have to cling to in the uncertainty of our lives; never has that proven true more than now. 


	3. eggsbenni221

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters+epilogue  
Rating: T (still debating whether or not to change this)  
Chapter Word Count: 4272  
Summary: see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)  


> She said, ‘I don’t think I can do this anymore.’  
> He took her in his arms and said, ‘that’s what my love is for.’  
> \- Martina McBride, “I’m Gonna Love You Through It”

 

Thursday 9 February  
9.00 PM

  
End of week 11. Everything moving along according to plan. Bridget feels about as well as can be expected, physically, though she tires easily and once or twice has complained of feeling faint. This is all normal, so I’ve been told, but I confess I can’t help worrying sometimes. The second-hand knowledge of it is all I have of the situation, and I have never felt so utterly helpless as I do when I witness her discomfort, knowing that, in the grand scheme of parental responsibilities, this is one burden Bridget must carry herself.

 

Friday 10 February  
5.00 PM

  
Tonight, at last, we share the news with the urban family, though I’m still not entirely sure how this will turn out. We’d planned to meet Jude, Sharon, Tom, Magda, and Jeremy for dinner, but when I arrived home from work early a few minutes ago, I found Bridget curled beneath the covers with no apparent inclination to get out of bed.  
“Bridget?” When she didn’t respond, I knelt beside the bed and rested a hand on her shoulder, trying to suppress the rising unease in the pit of my stomach. These days I seem to carry around a constant weight of anxiety about Bridget with the baby coming. Not that I don’t care about her health for her own sake, of course. It’s only that—damn it, Darcy. Get a hold of yourself. This isn’t Bloody 1813.  
“Bridget?” I murmured again. She stirred beneath the duvet and lifted her head. “Are you all right?”  
Sighing, she pulled herself into a sitting posture and brushed a hand across her eyes. “I’m just really, really tired.”  
I brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “Is that all?” She chewed on her lower lip. “Have you talked to your father today? How is he?” When she still remained silent, I cupped her face in my hands, coaxing her to look at me. “Bridget?”  
“It’s hard sometimes—being brave,” she said. “Pretending I’m not scared. Because I know I’m pretending, and he knows I’m pretending.” I reached for her hand, cradling it between both of my own. “He’s hopeful, but he’s also scared. It’s strange, you know? Seeing your parents scared—seeing them hurting, knowing that they’re being brave for you as much as, if not more than for themselves. I wonder—can I ever be that brave for our child? Can I pretend everything’s all right when I know that sometimes the reality is just the opposite? I just hate what this is doing to Dad, and I hate that there’s nothing—not a fucking thing I can do to stop it. Mark…” She swallowed, blinking back tears. “Mark, this is so unfair! Tonight was supposed to be perfect. We were supposed to share one of the happiest moments of our life with some of the people we love most in the world, and now, I just—I don’t want to face it.”  
“Oh, darling.” Nudging her aside, I perched on the edge of the bed and pulled her into my arms. “I know how difficult this is for you,” I said, pressing a kiss to her brow. “Like you said, sharing our news with the urban family should be something to celebrate. We’re only going to have our first child once, you know. If you want to put it off until you’re feeling a bit better, it’s perfectly understandable.”  
Bridget narrowed her eyes. “Mark, what’s got into you? Isn’t this the part where you tell me I’m being overly dramatic, and it’s just the hormones talking, and I’ve got to pull myself together because I won’t be any good to Dad or the baby if I go to pieces?”  
I smiled. “Well, actually that did occur to me, and I could say all of that, if it’s not too late to change my answer, but honestly, Bridget, is that what you really want?”  
“Mark, I’m being serious!”  
“So am I,” I replied. “Bridget, look, I don’t know what you want me to do, all right? Whatever you want—whatever you need—you know you have it from me, but I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now. Not to put too fine a point on it, you might be carrying our child, but this actually isn’t only about you. I’ve got to bear the brunt of a lot of this too, you know. I worry about you, I worry about the baby, I worry about your dad, and let’s not start in on making sure you don’t kill your mother in the middle of all of this—not that I’d entirely blame you, but that’s beside the point. Everyone’s expecting me to just be the invincible tower of strength amidst the chaos. Steady, dependable, level-headed Mark Darcy.”  
Bridget glared. “Well, maybe that’s because you are!” she shot back. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mark, but you’ve earned yourself a bit of a reputation for that. Excuse the rest of us for thinking we can rely on you when it really counts!”  
“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous. Are you satisfied? You want me to tell you you’re being dramatic and overreacting? Now you are.”  
“Well, don’t you think I’ve got every fucking right to be?” she demanded. “Honestly, you’re driving me mad! You—all hoity-toity, with your calm, soothing words and your patient voice! I’m a bit of a wreck at the moment, and I want my husband! Not some weird bliss-conjuring alien who’s splashed down from another planet trying to pull pink bunnies out of thin air to make me feel better!”  
Sensing impending defeat, I slumped against the pillows and closed my eyes in the vain hope that when I opened them again, I could reset the conversation to a point before it all went completely mad. “Bridget, this argument is getting us nowhere, and I really haven’t got the energy to continue. I’ll ask you once more: what do you want?” My question was met with silence, and then, all of a sudden, my eyes snapped open at the unmistakable sound of Bridget attempting to smother a giggle. “I fail to see the humor in the situation,” I said. “Would you be good enough to enlighten me?”  
“It’s—nothing!” she managed between giggles. “It’s only—Mark, I think—I think you’ve found your dad voice.”  
“Oh, um…” I considered her words. “I suppose I’ll have to punish you then. Otherwise how can I expect to be taken seriously?”  
Smiling, Bridget leaned in to kiss me. “Maybe later,” she whispered, skimming her fingertips across my shoulder. “Right now we’ve got to figure out what we’re going to do about this dinner.”  
“Well,” I said, twining an arm around her waist and pulling her to me, “we’ve still got a bit of time. Why don’t you have a rest and see how you feel?”  
Bridget frowned. “But I’ll have to get ready, Mark, if we do decide to go.”  
“I’ll wake you in thirty minutes,” I promised, kissing the top of her head.  
I feel oddly light now we’ve had that argument--as if someone’s lifted a weight from my shoulders that I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying round. I suppose I have been overcompensating a bit, emotionally, to try to keep a rein on my tendency toward military-style obsessive-compulsiveness while endeavoring to steady Bridget. Perhaps I needn’t try so hard. 

8.15 PM

  
Bloody Hell. Right. Have had to work out contingency plan for the evening since my promise to wake Bridget after half an hour went completely awry. I felt so exhausted—and so comfortable—with Bridget snuggled against me in bed that I must have drifted off myself. About thirty minutes ago, the ringing phone jolted me awake and, thinking it might be Pam or Colin, I reached for it automatically.  
“Hello?”  
“Mark! Where in fucking Hell are you?”  
I blinked and sat upright, scrubbing a hand across my face. “Sharon? I—what?”  
“Where! Are! You!” she shouted down the phone at me. “I’ve tried ringing Bridget’s mobile, and yours; we’re all waiting for you!”  
“Bridget’s asleep,” I whispered. “And I suppose I must have nodded off too. Lost track of time.”  
“Too fucking right, you have. Mark, it’s 7.45. You were supposed to be here forty-five minutes ago.”  
I glanced at the clock on the bedside table, which confirmed what Sharon had just told me. “Shit. Right. Listen, Sharon, we’ve—got a bit of a situation here.”  
“Oh, Christ, Mark. What is it. Is it Colin?” (Thank Heaven Bridget’s told everyone about her father, so at least we’ve not got that news to contend with too).  
“No,” I assured her. “At least, well, not precisely. I just don’t know if Bridget’s up to this evening, only I think she could really do with cheering up.”  
“Right. Okay, hang on.” I heard muffled conversation as Sharon presumably relayed my information to the others. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” she said a moment later, coming back on the line. “Mark, I want you to get Bridget out of bed. I don’t care how you do it. Tell her someone’s managed to set Mr Darcy loose from Pride and Prejudice and he’s running round London in a wet shirt. Just get her up. We’ll be over straight away.”  
“Um, all right, but Sharon, what--”  
“I’ve got this, Mark. Just look after Bridget.”  
“Right. Okay. See you in a bit then.”  
Waking Bridget and coaxing her into the shower proved somewhat more difficult than I originally anticipated, until I eventually convinced her with the offer to join her. The result, as I expected, involved a much longer shower than what I had in mind. Now everyone’s expected any minute, and the bedroom is presently scattered with items of clothing, none of which, Bridget claims, she can manage to fit into. Honestly, she hardly looks pregnant, not of course that she believed me when I ventured to point this out.  
“Mark, are you mad? I’ve totally begun to show! I look like a bloated hippopotamus!”  
“Bridget, you don’t. I swear.” Bridget ignored me, continuing to examine her reflection from various angles that required a set of impressive contortionist maneuvers. Perhaps our child will be born with an innate talent for break-dancing.  
“Would you tell me if I looked fat?” she asked.  
I sighed. “Of course I would. I mean—Hell, that came out wrong. I only meant—oh, for Heaven’s sake, there’s obviously no way for me to safely back-petal out of this, so I’m going to tell you what I’ve been telling you repeatedly for weeks.” I paused, moving to stand behind her and slipping my arms around her waist. “You’re absolutely beautiful.”  
“Mark, look!” Bridget exclaimed, pointing wildly at her breasts. “They’re enormous! Haven’t you noticed?”  
I shrugged. “You don’t hear me complaining.”  
“So you have noticed! How like a man. It figures that would be the first thing you’d pick up on.”  
“Bridget, it’s a bit difficult for me to avoid noticing when you’re all but waving them about in front of my face. Besides,” I added, “you came into this marriage already knowing my high regard for your wobbly bits—in all circumstances. This shouldn’t surprise you.” Bridget glared at me. “Look, you sort out this fashion crisis. I’m going to go down and sort out what we’re going to eat. Come down when you’ve put clothes on.”  
“Dad voice,” Bridget called after me as I left the room, and I had to work hard to suppress a grin. Really must get a move on as we hadn’t at all planned for houseguests and must make sure there’s a sufficient supply of alcohol, especially for Sharon, as a sign of gratitude for her taking everything so firmly in hand. I really must give her credit; of the entire urban family, Sharon and I tend to butt heads the most. Still, I know how much she loves Bridget, and honestly, in a crisis, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have as backup (Thailand fiasco notwithstanding). Right. Going to check provisions.

 

1.00 AM

Feeling at once completely knackered and perfectly contented with life. Possibly have over-imbibed, but as I rarely indulge in such behavior, I’ll refrain from the self-reproving lecture. By the time everyone arrived, Bridget had calmed down and had curled up on the sofa, thumbing through a magazine. On arriving, Tom immediately launched himself at her in an overly enthusiastic embrace, even for Tom.  
“Bridge! Darling!” he exclaimed as he swooped down on her. “We’ve come to cheer you up, ducky!” While she returned his hug, I noticed Magda observing her intently, a crease between her eyebrows. I ought to have suspected that if anyone would guess our secret, she would have done. She met my eyes for the briefest moment, and I had all I could do to keep a neutral expression, acknowledging her look with a noncommittal shrug.  
“Tonight is all about you, honey,” added Jude, moving in to rub Bridget’s shoulders consolingly.  
“Mark, why haven’t you gotten her a drink?” demanded Sharon, glowering at me. “I told you to look after her. Honestly, men,” she grumbled. “Fucking useless.” In a huff, she brushed past me, apparently intending to remedy my oversight, until Bridget called her back.  
“No, Shaz. Wait.”  
Sharon turned her frown on Bridget. “You don’t want a drink?” Bridget shook her head. “You—really don’t want a drink?” Again, Bridget shook her head, and I lowered my eyes; I had to suppress the urge to laugh, and the incredulity on Sharon’s face was too tempting. “Well, at least have a bloody cigarette, then.” Bridget shook her head a third time.  
“Okay, hang on,” said Tom, holding up a hand. “Mark, you said she needed a pick-me-up. You didn’t say she’d gone completely mad.”  
“She hasn’t,” I replied, smiling. “Or at least, not any more than we’re generally accustom to seeing her.”  
Turning back to Bridget, Tom studied her intently, the light of comprehension dawning in his eyes. “Bridge,” he said slowly, “something’s definitely up. You’re not drinking, you’re not smoking, and, quite frankly, your breasts look absolutely fabulicious.” He paused, his frown deepening, and then launched himself at Bridget again. “I knew it!” he shouted, pulling her up off of the sofa and planting a kiss on her cheek as he twirled her around. “I knew it I knew it I knew it! Bridge, this is fantastic!”  
“Wait,” said Jude. “You don’t mean—you’re not…”  
“Our little Bridget is pregnant!” exclaimed Tom, still holding tightly to Bridget as he danced across the living-room. “You are, aren’t you?”  
Beaming, Bridget came and stood beside me, slipping her hand into mine as she turned back to our friends. “We are.”  
Sharon arched a brow. “We?” Her gaze swiveled to me.  
“Here we go,” Tom groaned, rolling his eyes. “One feminist tirade, coming right up.”  
“Well,” argued Sharon, “it hardly seems like an accurate statement, given the fact that—oh, fuck me, never mind!” she declared, rushing over to embrace us both. Magda, Jeremy, and Jude followed.  
“We’re so glad for you,” said Jeremy as we grasped hands.  
“You knew, didn’t you?” I whispered to Magda as I bent to hug her.  
She only smiled. “Congratulations, you two,” she said, wrapping her arms around the both of us.  
“Bridget,” said Sharon, “you might not be drinking, but I’m bloody well having one for you.” Once I’d followed Sharon’s instructions and supplied everyone with a drink, Jeremy raised his glass.  
“I think this calls for a toast. To Mark and Bridget, and a happy, healthy baby.”  
“Who will never be left in a shop,” added Tom. The light in Bridget’s eyes warmed my heart as I pulled her to me and kissed her. Perhaps the evening hasn’t gone precisely according to plan, but I don’t think we could have planned it more perfectly.

 

Tuesday 14 February  
11.00 PM

  
Valentine’s day. Bridget doing well. Extremely relieved the urban family knows we’re expecting because Bridget has Magda to talk things over with. Thank Heaven Magda’s done this several times already.  
Tom rang earlier to ask whether I’d planned something special for Valentine’s Day. Fortunately, I was able to respond in the affirmative (as if I’d overlook my pregnant wife on the most romantic day of the year. My profession has exposed me to knowledge of any number of gruesome forms of torture, all of which seem highly preferable to what I’d suffer at Bridget’s hands if I committed such a crime). Miraculously I’ve succeeded in keeping my plan a secret. A work commitment this weekend has unfortunately interfered with my original plan, but I’ve managed to shuffle everything over to next weekend, and I feel confident that when Bridget discovers what I’ve arranged, she’ll forgive the delay. She knows that I’ve got something on for the weekend, but despite her relentless nagging, I’ve told her nothing else.

 

Friday 24 February  
10.30 PM

  
I’m brilliant, if I do say so myself. I’m not generally given to boasting, but I really think I have no improper pride here. Unbeknown to Bridget, I decided to surprise her for Valentine’s Day and booked us a suite at Hintlesham Hall, where we had what I suppose you could refer to as our first official date, though date would perhaps be a euphemism for what I admit unreservedly was gloriously spectacular sex. When we arrived, we shared a quiet supper in the wood-paneled dining parlor, though admittedly we didn’t linger over our meal as long as we’d originally planned since the surroundings evoked memories for both of us of that long-ago tryst. In our suite, Bridget leaned against me as her eyes traveled round the room. A smile tugged at her lips as she studied the four-poster bed draped with cream-colored hangings.  
“I love this, Mark,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. “But you needn’t have gone to so much trouble.”  
I smiled and bent to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Not true, and you know it.”  
“Well, maybe you’re right,” she admitted. “And it was a lovely idea, Mark.”  
“Well,” I said, “I thought, seeing as how we’re on the brink of a new beginning, it might be nice to remember how things began for us.”  
“Oh, I have no trouble remembering how things began,” said Bridget, her eyes sparkling. “But if you need me to refresh your memory, I’d be happy to.”  
“It couldn’t hurt,” I agreed, tugging gently on her hand and gesturing toward the bed. “Shall we?”  
As I took Bridget into my arms, I marveled at how far we’ve come since that first night of passion more than ten years ago. Our coupling then had been fraught with the intensity and excitement of discovery; now I find it difficult to imagine a time when we were unaccustomed to the rhythms of one another’s bodies. Our lovemaking of late has naturally been gentler and, perhaps, somewhat less frequent, though all the more pleasurable for it. I take daily delight in tracing the nuanced changes blossoming in Bridget’s form with the pregnancy, discovering something new each time I hold her—the subtle curve of her hip or the fullness of her breast.  
After we made love, Bridget dropped off to sleep, and I cradled her against my chest for several minutes before placing a light kiss on her temple and slipping from bed to prepare the next phase of the evening’s indulgences. I padded into the bathroom, smiling to myself as I set out towels and filled the tub. A bottle of champagne encased in a crystal ice bucket sat waiting beside a box of truffles. Lured by the fragrance of the bath water, or more likely by the scent of chocolate, Bridget suddenly appeared in the doorway, her bare skin still retaining a pink tinge from our lovemaking.  
“Full marks,” she said, her eyes shining.  
“Hang on.” I held up a hand before dimming the lights and lit the candles I’d brought into the room with me. “Now, you were saying?”  
“Mark, this is—so perfect!” I filled two champagne flutes and crossed the room, kissing her as I handed one of them to her. “Have I told you how incredible you look naked?” she asked.  
I shrugged. “You might have mentioned it, but I don’t mind hearing it.”  
Bridget raised her champagne and clinked her glass against mine. “To new beginnings,” she whispered. Our eyes met over the rims of our glasses, and we smiled in unison.  
“I’ve taken the liberty of drawing you a bath, my lady,” I said, taking her free hand in mine and guiding her to the tub.  
“We don’t do this often enough,” Bridget sighed as we slid together into the water.  
“No time like the present,” I observed, pressing my fingers into the knots of tension in her lower back. “Let’s not entertain any fantasies about parenthood. Moments like this are going to be few and far between before too long.”  
“And yet,” said Bridget, leaning her head back against my chest, “we still want it.”  
“With YOU, DARLING, I WANT EVERYTHING.” I wrapped my arms around her and danced my fingertips across the soft swell of her navel, marveling at that barest hint of budding life beneath my hands.  
“I love the way you do that,” said Bridget, resting her hand atop mine. “Hello, little baby.”  
“I wonder if anyone’s still awake in there,” I said, gently tickling her belly.  
Bridget giggled. “Your daddy’s being very silly right now.”  
“Not at all,” I protested, manufacturing a sober expression. “I’m nothing of the sort. Don’t talk nonsense.” Still laughing, Bridget nestled closer and rested her head against my shoulder.  
“Mark?” she said suddenly, twisting round to face me. “Mark, how often do you wonder about the baby—what it’s going to be, I mean?”  
“All the time,” I murmured, cupping her face between my hands. “I wonder if she’ll have your eyes.”  
Bridget brought her own hand up to trace the curve of my lips. “I wonder if he’ll have your smile.”  
“I wonder if she’ll have your laugh,” I continued, dipping my head to kiss her and tasting the sweetness of the giggle that bubbled on her tongue as I tickled her again.  
“Have you ever thought it might be nice to know for certain?” she asked, tilting her head up to look directly into my eyes.  
I shrugged. “I do wonder sometimes, of course.”  
“Because, you know, mark, we can find out now, if we wanted.”  
“Do you want to know?” I asked.  
“I’m—not sure,” she admitted. “I mean, I wonder about it too, and sometimes I think I’d like to know, but it’s not as if we aren’t going to find out eventually anyway. It’s just, well, I wondered if it would make a difference, knowing.”  
“Make a difference for what reason?” I asked softly.  
“Well, I don’t know—I mean, I know how much you’d like a boy. A son. You know, another Mark Darcy.”  
I smiled. “True, but I also know we don’t precisely have control over it. Honestly it doesn’t really matter.”  
“Are you sure?”  
“Bridget, darling,” I whispered, draping an arm across her shoulders to pull her close, “I wouldn’t love her any less. You know that, don’t you?”  
“I know,” she said, tucking her head beneath my chin.  
“In fact,” I continued, dropping a kiss on the top of her head, “if she’s anything like her mother, she’ll probably have me wrapped around her finger before she can utter a syllable.”  
“So would you rather wait to find out?” she asked.  
I stroked her cheek with my fingertips. “Yes, let’s. We’ll think of it as an adventure. Just one of the many we’ll have together.”  
“Oh, Mark.” Eyes glistening with tears in the candle-light, Bridget wrapped her arms around me and kissed me.

Later, as we settled down for the night, Bridget snuggled beneath my arm with a contented sigh.  
“This has all been really lovely, Mark. Really. I couldn’t have imagined anything more perfect, but—oh, shit! I completely forgot!” Wiggling out from beneath my arm, she slipped from bed and returned a moment later with a rectangular package which she deposited in my lap.  
“It’s not particularly exciting,” she said as I pealed back the rapping. “But you’ll like it, I think.” Lifting the lid of the box, I withdrew a silver picture frame. “I thought you’d like it for your desk, at chambers, when the baby comes.”  
I smiled. “You must have read my mind.” I slipped my hand beneath Bridget’s pillow for the wrapped jeweler’s box I’d concealed there earlier. “Open it,” I said, placing it in her hand. Bridget tore into the paper, her eyes shining as she discovered the silver locket inside. “I was thinking along the same lines,” I murmured, watching as she turned the trinket over in her hand.  
“Oh, Mark, I love it. This is perfect.”  
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Bridget,” I whispered, slipping her into my arms and covering her mouth with mine.  
“Happy Valentine’s day, Mark.”  
This day couldn’t have gone more perfectly. I can’t help but smile when I think of the gifts Bridget and I selected for each other, envisioning our future family and what that picture might resemble. It’s growing late. More soon. 


	4. eggsbenni221

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters+epilogue  
Rating: T  
Chapter Word Count: 4161  
Summary: see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)  


> You learn to run from what you feel, and that’s why you have nightmares. To deny is to invite madness. To accept is to control.”  
> \- Megan Chance, “The Spiritualist
>
>>  
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> Friday 10 March  
> 10.30 PM
>> 
>>   
> Life continues to move along. Work has kept me occupied during the day; Bridget has kept me wide awake at night, not that I’m complaining. I thought the midnight cravings were supposed to lessen in intensity as the pregnancy progressed. Apparently not. (Not that I’m complaining). Given what Bridget has to bear, the least I can do is dash about London like a madman at all hours of the night on a quest for pizza, chocolate, and Heaven knows what else. Great shall be my reward in the next life, so I tell myself.  
> Thank Heaven for Jeremy; at least I’ve got another man to commiserate with, and if he’s been to Hell and back several times and lived to tell the tale, there’s hope for me. I’ve done my best to press on through the haze of fatigue, but I think the strain has begun to show. Jeremy popped into my office around lunch time this afternoon to find me staring listlessly at a 26-page report on my desk.  
> “Mark, are you all right?” With a jolt, I realized I’d been reading the same page repeatedly without having taken in a single word. As I lifted my eyes from the paragraph that had begun to resemble little more than congealed ink, Jeremy offered me a sympathetic smile. “Mark, you look completely knackered.”  
> I leaned my head wearily on my hand. “I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing,” I said, gesturing vaguely toward the file in front of me. “I shudder to think what miscarriage of justice I might have on my hands as a result of my negligence.”  
> “What mad midnight craving was it this time?” asked Jeremy.  
> “I—don’t even remember. Oysters, or seedless watermelon, or both, or neither. I haven’t a bloody clue anymore.”  
> Jeremy leaned against the edge of my desk. “You know, Mark, you’ll survive this. I promise. And it will all be worth it.”  
> “I know. You’re living proof of that, and honestly,” I smiled, “I can’t wait, Jeremy. It’s strange; I’ve never wanted something so intensely and been so frightened of it at the same time.”  
> Jeremy nodded. “It’s incredible, Mark. The feeling—I can’t explain it, but you’ll know what I mean. It just—I don’t know—it gives your life a whole new purpose.”  
> “I know how much life is going to change, but in a way, it’ll be a relief to have something productive to do. Right now, I just feel like support staff.”  
> Jeremy laughed. “That’s essentially what you are, for the next few months anyway, but you know you don’t have to go through it alone. Whenever the hormone levels get a bit too much to bear, I’m more than happy to offer you an escape hatch.”  
> “I appreciate that, Jeremy.”  
> “I mean it,” he said gently. “I’m always here, and Magda is too—for you and for Bridget. I can’t tell you how thrilled we are for you.”  
> A lump rose in my throat at his words, and I suddenly stood, walked around my desk, and embraced him. “Jeremy, I don’t—that is—just—thank u.”  
> Jeremy clapped a hand on my shoulder. “That’s what friends are for, Mark.”  
> I nodded. “And while we’re on the subject…” I hesitated. “You remember that after Bridget and I married, I arranged my affairs to leave adequate provision for her if, well, if anything happened.”  
> Jeremy smiled. “Yes, I seem to remember Bridget making a joke about having a strong motive to kill you if you ever drove her mad.”  
> “Yes, well, now with the baby coming, I’ll feel better knowing there’s—some sort of security in place. Promise me, Jeremy—Promise me you’ll look after things—look after them if… well…” I punctuated my unfinished sentence with a shrug.  
> Jeremy frowned. “Mark, do you know something I don’t?”  
> I shook my head. “No, I’ve just been thinking about it, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you. It’s difficult to discuss these things with Bridget; she just thinks it’s my legal brain in overdrive, but you and I know differently. You can’t just leave these things to look after themselves.”  
> “You can trust me, Mark,” Jeremy assured me. “And that baby’s going to have more love than he’ll know what to do with.”  
> Again I smiled. “If nothing else, we’ll have a vast array of baby-sitting options at our disposal.”  
> Jeremy chuckled. “That too.”  
> I feel supremely grateful. Knowing our friends are ready to stand by us makes this cocktail of mixed emotions all so much easier to bear.
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> Monday 13 March  
> 8.30 PM
>> 
>> Have just experienced the most miraculous, life-altering event. How strange it is that the most extraordinary of moments often occur on the most ordinary of days. I was kept late at chambers and thought on my way home that I’d just surprise Bridget with a takeaway; I suspected she might not feel like cooking, and I didn’t feel especially enthused about the prospect myself. When I arrived, I found Bridget snuggled beneath a blanket on the sofa, thumbing through a copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. To her credit, she didn’t rush out and purchase this herself; the self-help library acquisition was Pam’s.  
> “Mark, you really ought to have a look at this,” she said, glancing up from the book as I bent to kiss her.  
> I shrugged. “Maybe I will, once you’ve finished with it.”  
> “Don’t take that hoity-toity tone with me, Mark Darcy,” she huffed, half in amusement, half in irritation. “You don’t know a thing about being a parent any more than I do. You could stand to learn a thing or two from this book.”  
> I smiled. “Spoiler alert. Don’t leave the baby in a shop.”  
> We ate dinner in a relatively comfortable silence interspersed with occasional questions about each other’s days. After finishing the washing up, Bridget settled back down with her book while I skimmed a file of case notes I didn’t find time to address earlier in the day. When my eyes began to itch with tiredness, I set my work aside and leaned over to wrap my arms around Bridget, resting my chin on her shoulder.  
> “Have you spoken to your father today?” I asked.  
> “Just before you got home,” she replied.  
> “How is he?”  
> She shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I suppose. He’s a lot braver than I am. I think I’d go all to pieces if I were the one going through it. I mean, we’re all going through it, in a way, but we’re just fooling ourselves if we pretend what we feel is anything like what Dad’s feeling.”  
> I brushed her cheek with the back of my hand. “Well, you’ve still got to be brave, in your own way,” I reminded her. “And talking about it—acknowledging what’s happening—is a part of that.” Bridget smiled. “And while we’re on the subject,” I continued, “how are you feeling today?”  
> “I’m fine, Mark,” said Bridget, flipping a page to continue her reading. “Honestly, I’m not made of glass.”  
> “I know. I’m sorry. I can’t help worrying a bit though.”  
> Bridget’s expression softened. “I’d be worried if you weren’t, to be honest,” she said. “But we’re nearly over the first hurdle; the further along I get, the less cause we’ll have to worry. I’m sure…” Her voice suddenly faltered, and she allowed her book to slide from her grasp as her hand fluttered to her abdomen.  
> “Bridget?” Instinctively I grasped her shoulders and turned her to face me. She sat perfectly still, her eyes slightly unfocused, as if staring at something only she could see. “Bridget, what’s wrong? What is it? Are you in pain?”  
> “No,” she whispered. “It just—caught me by surprise. It’s happened once or twice, but I’ve not quite got used to it yet.”  
> “Bridget, for Heaven’s sake, tell me what’s the matter.” To my astonishment, she smiled and, taking my hand in hers, placed it against her stomach. “Bridget, what—I don’t…” And then I felt it, like a tiny flutter of wings against my fingers. For several moments, I could only stare at my hand on Bridget’s waist, still tingling from the sensation even as I felt it a second time, and I marveled at how such a tiny movement could make my world stand still.  
> “Oh,” I murmured. Overcome, I gathered her into my arms and claimed her mouth in a long, ardent kiss. Such a compelling mystery is life; so fragile, and yet so powerful. I could cradle this baby in the palm of my hand, and yet I am held captive by the very miracle of its existence. This child, our child, has already begun to make his way, or hers, into the world. Who are you, I wonder, little one? Who will you become? Do you know—can you sense—how much we already love you?
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> Saturday 25 March  
> 7.30 PM
>> 
>>   
> Just home from a week-long conference in New York. I feel terribly guilty about having left Bridget on her birthday—to have left her at all, I confess—and I have never been so grateful to be at home again. (Besides, never hurts to return home bearing gifts of the telltale blue box variety. Was in New York anyway, so seemed foolish not to pop into Tiffany’s).  
> I arrived home late this afternoon, having arranged a flight home that would allow me to return to London as early as possible. (utterly exhausted. Must have been mad, but entirely worth it given enthusiastic greeting received from wife). I entered the house, immediately (and uncharacteristically) abandoning my suitcase and attaché in the entryway, longing for a stiff drink and Bridget’s embrace, not necessarily in that order. I paused, however, at the silence that greeted me. Frowning, I checked my mobile to see whether I’d missed any calls or texts from Bridget to inform me she’d be out.  
> “Bridget?” I called, endeavoring and, admittedly failing to suppress a prickle of apprehension. “Bridget?” I advanced to the foot of the stairs, and as I strained my ears for signs of movement, I heard music issuing from one of the bedrooms. Releasing the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, I shrugged out of my suit jacket and tossed it over the banister before mounting the stairs. Turning down the hallway, I found Bridget in the room we’d decided to designate as the nursery, and I paused at the threshold, torn between dismay and amusement at the sight that met my eyes. The late afternoon light filtering in through the curtains caught Bridget’s profile, accenting the natural glow that emanated from her. She’d gathered her hair back into a loose ponytail, several strands of which had escaped to fall across her face. She wore a loose-fitting top and a pair of jeans, both of which, I noticed, were spattered with blue paint. Smiling, I let my eyes travel down her form; her bare feet, which seemed to have been inexpertly attempting to hold a drop-cloth in place, were likewise speckled blue.  
> “I hadn’t realized I have such a talented wife,” I observed, stepping into the room. “This,” gesturing to the walls, “is really quite original. Are you planning to exhibit it at the Royal Academy?”  
> “Mark!” Startled, Bridget let the paint-roller in her hand slide with a squelch to the floor. “I thought—I must have lost track of time.” She started forward as if to embrace me; then glanced down at her paint-smeared clothes. Smiling broadly, I stepped closer and swept her into my arms, claiming her mouth in a long-anticipated kiss. “Mark!” she squealed. “I’ve got paint all down my front! Your shirt--” I swallowed the remainder of her protest as I deepened the kiss.  
> “Darling Bridget,” I whispered, burying my face in her hair. “How I’ve missed you.”  
> “I’ve missed you too,” she said. For several minutes, we simply stood in the center of the room, arms intertwined, until Bridget disentangled herself and brushed a fingertip along my jaw. “But you look exhausted.”  
> “And you look like you’ve been having far too much fun without me,” I replied, gesturing to her paint-spattered attire.  
> “I know,” murmured Bridget, her cheeks turning pink with the confession. “I couldn’t wait. I’ve been rattling about the house all week, bored out of my mind, and I thought I’d surprise you.”  
> “Well,” I began, examining the walls, “You’ve certainly managed to--”  
> “Make a complete mess of things?” Bridget supplied.  
> “I wouldn’t exactly—you’ve only just—yes, I suppose complete mess would describe the state of things pretty accurately. Can I ask what prompted this spark of artistic inspiration, or would it send the hormone fluctuations into a panic?”  
> Bridget chipped at the paint drying on her thumbnail. “I don’t know. I just—felt in need of something to do. I woke up this morning, and I felt the baby moving around a bit, and it just—gave me a push, you know?”  
> “Given your penchant for procrastination,” I observed, “I think this can only help.”  
> Bridget smiled reluctantly. “Well, yes. I mean, I can’t just lie about watching telly and eating Cadbury. I want to do something; I need to do something. I suppose this was ridiculous of me though. I don’t know why I thought I could manage it on my own,” she conceded, lowering her eyes.  
> Gently I placed a finger under her chin, tilting her head up till her gaze met mine. “Would you like it if I gave you a hand?”  
> Bridget frowned. “Really?”  
> “You needn’t sound so surprised,” I remarked.  
> “I’m not,” she insisted. “But you’re not exactly Johannes Vermeer, and besides, you’re exhausted.” For answer, I pulled her to me again and bent to nuzzle her neck. As I pressed her closer, she lifted a brow at the clear—evidence, for lack of a better word—of my alertness. I tried and failed to bite back a groan as her hand slid its way down my thigh.  
> “You’ve just reminded me,” I whispered, running the tip of my tongue along her earlobe, “I’ve still got to give you your birthday present.”  
> “Oh.” Bridget tilted her head back to wink at me. “It’s not in your pocket?”  
> I smiled. “whatever you happen to find in my pocket is yours to do with as you wish, darling,” I replied. Bridget’s hands instantly went to work unfastening the buttons on my shirt, and painting the nursery was abandoned in favor of other pursuits.  
> When Bridget eventually drifted off to sleep in my arms, I reluctantly unwound myself and crept from the room to retrieve her actual present—the silver bracelet and sapphire earrings I’d purchased in New York. The bracelet had been simple enough to select, delicate and unadorned but for a heart-shaped charm that perfectly matches the pendant Bridget favors. The earrings were a more impulsive purchase, and I hesitated as Bridget examined them; as much as I have always loved and appreciated the fact that she never expects and in fact finds it distinctly uncomfortable to be showered with expensive trinkets, I do occasionally wish she would allow me to spoil her more often than she does. I learned quickly that Bridget, unlike most of the other women of my acquaintance over the years, values sentimentality over style, and it’s taken only a bit of ingenuity on my part to discover how to strike a balance between the two. I observed closely as Bridget traced her fingers over the stones, rubbing a thumb along their smooth edges.  
> “Mark, I—they’re--”  
> “A bit flashy,” I finished. “I know, and don’t worry if you don’t like them.”  
> She frowned. “How can I just not worry if I ‘don’t like’ something so valuable it should probably come with an armed guard? Mark, what were you thinking?”  
> I considered my words carefully; then cupped her face in my hands. “I was thinking, the moment I saw them, of how much I love waking every morning and looking into your eyes.” Those eyes, now predictably shining with tears, met mine.  
> “If that’s a lie, Mark Darcy, that’s the most romantic lie I’ve ever heard.” Before I could protest, she flung her arms around my neck and kissed me. (Consider myself paid in full).
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> 11.00 PM
>> 
>> My hands are still shaking, but I’m slowly regaining some measure of control. When Bridget went up to bed just over an hour ago, I withdrew to my office to sort through papers, review emails, and, frankly, find any excuse possible to avoid sleep despite the onset of fatigue. Bridget expressed the truth when she observed my exhaustion earlier this evening, but she little guessed why, and had I any control over the situation, she would have remained in ignorance.  
> Not long after we married, Bridget discovered that I suffer from nightmares; I knew she would, eventually, but I had foolishly hoped I might keep them from her for as long as possible. It felt terribly infantilizing to admit, even to my own wife, that my well-disciplined, boarding school upbringing, which I had always professed to defend vigorously, had left me with an unspoken, deep-seeded trauma. Withdrawn and reserved as I was, even as a child, I had never expressed a particular desire to leave home, but it was the way of things; Darcy men went to Eton, my father had explained. I had always believed my father, with his stern expressions and his military baring, to be a kind of institution in his own right, never realizing until much later that he too was a product of that upbringing more than a manufacturer. I learned quickly that boys didn’t miss their mothers—or if they did, they hardly admitted to it, and they certainly didn’t cry about it—not so that anyone noticed, at least. So I learned, and I obeyed, and I internalized and metabolized my fears into the hard, self-mastery of the stiff upper-lipped Englishman, knowing even as I did that the frightened little boy beneath that protective shell was all the more tender for craving the love that all children crave.  
> I could never quite recall the dreams even in the moments just after waking, and for a time I seemed unable to catch hold of that elusive shadow that crept into my mind in those unconscious, vulnerable hours of sleep. It was Bridget, of course, who excavated the memories—Bridget who found the little boy crying in the dead of night, who heled him, loved him, whose arms and heart became the talisman I hadn’t realized I needed. The dreams dissipated after we’d been married for a few months, like fog burned away in a sunrise; it’s odd to think now that in all the time we spent together, it wasn’t until we married that she made the discovery, as if I were subconsciously suppressing it from her until I felt secure enough to let down my guard and expose that vulnerable side of myself. I still vividly recall that first night and the ritual that followed: Bridget’s arms around me, holding me close, gently, tenderly pulling me bac to consciousness.  
> “Does your mummy love you?”  
> ‘No,’ I’d try to reply, still half-submerged in sleep, hating myself for the admission because of course she did—of course she does.  
> “Do I love you?” And I didn’t need to answer, because I knew, and Bridget knew I knew, and I would smile and snuggle her beneath my arm and wake the next morning to feel her beside me, strong and warm and loving.  
> I never thought the dreams would haunt me again, until I woke in the dead of night, in a large, empty bed, in a hotel in New York, an ocean away from Bridget. The first night, I didn’t go back to sleep; I lay in bed, trembling beneath the covers, watching the lights of the city dance across the curtains. I glanced at the clock every ten minutes, wanting to call Bridget, not daring to ring her. It would hardly be 5.00 AM in London. I watched and waited, and when the first rays of sunlight finally began to creep into the room, I reached for the phone.  
> “Mark, it can’t be much past dawn there. Is everything okay?”  
> “I love you, Bridget. I just—wanted to tell you.”  
> “I love you too, Mark.”  
> The nightmares returned every night; every night I lay awake, waiting for the first tinge of dawn to call Bridget, the shadows in my mind receding at the first sound of her voice. Tonight, after Bridget retired, I busied myself with paperwork and responding to emails that had gone neglected during my absence until, exhausted but afraid to sleep, I settled on the sofa with a book. I don’t know when I drifted off, but the next thing I knew, I felt Bridget’s arms around me and heard her voice in my ear, soft and caressing like a long-forgotten lullaby.  
> “Do I love you?” Instinctively I curled myself into the crook of her arm, allowing her to pull my head to her breast as she continued to whisper words of comfort. “Sh, Mark, it’s all right. It was just a dream. It’s all right.”  
> As my breathing slowed, I disentangled myself and sat up, massaging my temples. “I didn’t think I’d ever have one of those again,” I said, hating the tremor in my voice.  
> “Is tonight the first time?” asked Bridget.  
> I shook my head. “They started again this past week, while I was in New York.”  
> “Oh, Mark.” Bridget reached to cradle my face in her hands, gently but firmly forcing me to turn toward her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”  
> “I couldn’t. I mean, I tried to, but…”  
> “The phone calls,” she murmured, rubbing the pad of her thumb across my cheek. “Of course. How stupid. Shit, Mark. I should have realized.”  
> “No,” I said, raising my own hand to her cheek to mirror her gesture. “You couldn’t have. It’s not your fault.”  
> “It’s not surprising, really, that the nightmares returned now, if you think about it,” said Bridget. “You’re thinking about the baby—about becoming a dad—about not making the same mistakes that--”  
> “My parents didn’t make a mistake,” I said stiffly, dropping my hand and pulling away.  
> “Mark, it’s okay if--”  
> “Bridget, don’t you understand? Haven’t I ever been able to make you understand? My parents did what they were supposed to do; it was the way things were done.”  
> “I’m not blaming them, Mark. Really. I do understand.”  
> “I wasn’t suited for that life. I wasn’t--”  
> “Don’t you dare tell me you weren’t strong enough, Mark Darcy.” Bridget folded her arms and glared at me. “Maybe you would have thrived better at home; in fact I’m sure you would have done, but you bore it, and lived up to it, and you were brave and strong and resilient. It wasn’t your fault that your parents didn’t realize—or couldn’t realize how much you were hurting, and if you think I’m going to sit there and let you blame yourself--”  
> “Bridget, I don’t want to talk about it,” I snapped, effectively punctuating her protest.  
> “But you obviously need to, because you know, Mark, if this is about you—about your fears about sending your own children away, I’m not going to let that happen.”  
> I sighed. “Bridget, it’s late, and I’m terribly exhausted. This isn’t the appropriate time to argue about such a difficult subject, and in any case, it’s not that simple. I can’t just—there’s a--”  
> “A way of doing things?” Bridget finished. “Mark, the entire nation won’t descend into anarchy if the Darcys stop sending their children to boarding school. Doing things a bit differently, raising your own children a bit differently than your parents raised you doesn’t mean the end of civilization as we know it. I thought when you married me that you’d got rid of that giant stick up your bum, but apparently we might have to look into having it surgically removed.”  
> “Bridget, I don’t—that’s not—you’ve got the wrong end of…” Whether from nerves or exhaustion, or my utter bafflement at Bridget’s ability to dismantle my logic in less than 30 seconds, I dropped my head onto her shoulder and began to laugh. Bridget attempted unsuccessfully to suppress her own giggles, and for the next several minutes, we simply held each other, laughing until we were nearly breathless. Needless to say, we abandoned the conversation, and in any case, it seems rather ambitious to be weighing school options when the paint in the nursery hasn’t even finished drying yet. Should really consider sleep.   
> 


	5. eggsbenni221

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Mark/Natasha moving to New York scenario is film universe, but I have always particularly loved that turning point in Mark's character, when he recognizes that he doesn't want that life, so when I wrote Natasha into this chapter, I drew on that. As always, typos are mine; "Sherlock" me at will!

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221  
Rating: T  
Chapter Word Count: 43767  
Summary: See [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)  


Author's Note: the Mark/Natasha moving to New York scenario is film universe, but I have always particularly loved that turning point in Mark's character, when he recognizes that he doesn't want that life, so when I wrote Natasha into this chapter, I drew on that. As always, typos are mine; "Sherlock" me at will!

> I don’t want to hate  
> But that’s all you’ve left me with.  
> A bitter aftertaste  
> And a fantasy of how we all could live.  
> \- Robbie Williams, “No Regrets”

 

Friday 14 April  
9.00 PM

  
Week 21. (Where has time gone? Cannot help noticing the consistently large gaps between entries. I should be more diligent, particularly if serious about mapping baby’s progress into the world). The further along we get, the less prepared I feel for the eventuality of parenthood. Why can’t children come with an owner’s manual? Self-help literature doesn’t count; I suspect that whatever they claim, it’s going to be a bit like having a washing machine. Every model is different.  
Have hardly had a moment to breathe these last few weeks due to a particularly difficult case Jeremy and I have had to handle. The one advantage to the long hours and endless strategy discussions is that I’ve had plenty of opportunities to spend time with Jeremy, with the result that he’s managed to keep me relatively sane. Bridget has likewise taken advantage of the opportunity to spend time with Magda while Jeremy and I have been occupied. Both of them have provided invaluable veteran parental advice.  
Now that we’ve successfully settled the case, Magda has planned a celebratory dinner party for tomorrow evening—a mix of colleagues from chambers and the group that Bridget continues to refer to as the smug marrieds. Admittedly, I must agree that Cosmo and Woney at least still fall into this category. I can only hope Cosmo will keep a civil tongue in his head, because I refuse to be held responsible for the pregnancy hormone-charged wrath Bridget will undoubtedly unleash on him if he doesn’t.

 

Saturday 15 April  
11.45 PM

  
Well, after this evening, I am seriously considering avoiding polite company for the remainder of my existence. With the exception of Magda and Jeremy and the rest of the urban family, we’ve not had much social interaction with many of our friends and colleagues during the last several months, and consequently tonight was the first large gathering at which Bridget and I have been present since learning that she’s pregnant. I must admit, my general aversion to being at the center of attention notwithstanding, that I enjoyed receiving congratulations and well-wishes from the assembled guests, until Cosmo came galumphing across the room toward us.  
“Oh-ho!” he boomed, weaving tipsily as he approached us so that some of the remaining liquor in his glass spilled down the rather generous expanse of his belly. “There’s the happy couple!”  
Instinctively I reached for Bridget’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze as I turned to acknowledge Cosmo. “Nice to see you, Cosmo.”  
“I understand congratulations are in order!” he said.  
“Yes,” replied Bridget, offering him a polite smile.  
“About time too! Tick tock, you know, old girl!”  
“Yes, well,” said Bridget, her smile never faltering, “We thought we’d better get a move on before my ovaries exploded.”  
Cosmo chuckled; then turned his attention on me. “Mark, well done, old chap,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder as if I’d just swum the English Channel with one arm tied behind my back. “We started wondering if you’d manage it. Lucky thing, considering—well…” his gaze shifted back to Bridget. I winced; Cosmo’s lack of tact never fails to amaze me.  
“We’re extremely fortunate,” I replied.  
“Right-o. Well, we’re all really pleased for you both. Welcome to the club.”  
“Yes, you smug, pompous old windbag with an incurable drinking problem,” mumbled Bridget as Cosmo waddled off to refill his glass.  
“I’m not sure you’re in a position to criticize anyone else’s drinking habits, love,” I remarked, smiling and slipping an arm about her waist; it was high time someone gave Cosmo what he deserved, and Bridget, despite the animosity bubbling just below the surface, would never actually dream of launching any of the verbal zingers in her impressive arsenal of wit.  
Before Bridget could reply, someone approached from behind and murmured, “Mark? Mark Darcy?” I recognized the voice instantly, though I’ve not heard it in years. Given the way Bridget had narrowed her eyes, she recognized it as well, but despite her guarded expression, she gave my hand a reassuring pat.  
Gathering my composure, I turned round to face the speaker. “Natasha?”  
“Yes,” she said, extending a hand and flashing me a practiced smile.  
“This is—quite an unexpected pleasure.” I said pleasantly, willing my eyes to meet hers as our hands touched. “I had no idea you were in London.”  
“I’ve only just returned,” explained Natasha. “My mother hasn’t been well; it’s more convenient for me to be closer.”  
“I’m sorry to hear it,” I said, “but I certainly understand.” When I had decided not to accept the position I had been offered in America, Natasha, having made the transition with me, had elected to remain, hardly a surprise given her disdain at my decision to turn down a partnership in one of the most prestigious law firms in New York to pursue my relationship with Bridget. I hadn’t precisely told her as much in words, but she had guessed my reason, and I had, in her estimation, clearly come down in the world. Never once have I regretted that decision and all that it led to, though the truth forces me to admit that, for a time at least, I felt uneasy about how I had left things with Natasha. In my mind, our relationship had always been cordial and professional; I enjoyed her company, valued her expertise, and respected her work ethic, but never had I considered her anything more than a colleague. Yet if I never believed that I’d encouraged her to think of our relationship as anything more intimate, I suppose I hadn’t ever precisely discouraged her either; on the contrary, looking back on my behavior, I realize that what I had always intended to communicate as indifference had instead appeared more as tacit acceptance, if not open encouragement. Studying her now, her brows raised as her eyes landed on Bridget standing beside me, I felt again what a lucky escape I’d made. Natasha was Natasha still; haughty, self-important, and utterly without personality.  
Smile still firmly in place, Natasha finally extended an impeccably manicured hand toward Bridget. “So lovely to see you again,” she said, her tone dripping with such syrupy sweetness that I wouldn’t have been surprised if Bridget had developed a sudden toothache.  
“Likewise,” replied Bridget, deliberately avoiding catching my eye, most likely to keep from laughing, I suspected.  
“I understand from Magda that congratulations are in order,” continued Natasha.  
“Yes, thank you.”  
“And you look well. Taking excellent care of yourself, I see. Tell me,” she added, eyeing Bridget’s glass of water, “how does nonalcoholic maternity suit you?”  
Bridget laughed. “Oh, you know, it’s all about moderation.”  
“I’m sure you can always rely on Mark to encourage you,” said Natasha, casting an almost wistful glance in my direction.  
“Oh, yes,” Bridget said airily. “I don’t know what I’d do without Mark. He’s been absolutely super. He looks after me so well. I’d probably have died of alcohol poisoning with my head in the toilet months ago if not for him keeping me in check.” While I stood torn between amusement and embarrassment and Natasha appeared undecided about whether or not to take the remark seriously, Bridget politely extricated herself from the conversation. “I think I’ll just go and see if Magda needs any help in the kitchen.”  
Natasha looked after her with a mixture of irritation and envy registering in her expression before shifting her attention back to me. “I always wondered if you were really serious about her,” she murmured finally. “It seemed such an unlikely coupling.”  
I shrugged. “Not quite as unlikely as you might think.” Natasha arched a brow. “Really, Mark, you can’t tell me that finding yourself with Bridget didn’t surprise you as much as it did the rest of us.”  
“Well, perhaps at first,” I conceded. “I’ll admit there was a time in my life when, if anyone had told me I’d end up with Bridget, I’d have thought they were mad, but time has a way of shifting one’s perspective remarkably. Now I can’t imagine my life without her.”  
“You’re happy, then?” asked Natasha.  
“Very much,” I replied.  
“It’s odd,” she said, taking a sip of her drink, “the paths we wind up traveling in life. To each his own, I suppose.” I wondered, as she spoke, if she were passing judgement on the choices I’d made. Tenaciously ambitious and career-oriented, Natasha had never struck me as particularly family-minded, not that I have any right to criticize. Before Bridget, I never imagined my life following that trajectory either; nonetheless, I could no more have pictured myself married to Natasha than she could picture me married to Bridget. She reminded me far too painfully of the mistake I made with my first marriage. Uncertain how best to acknowledge her observation, I simply nodded; then politely excused myself when I spotted Giles across the room.

If I thought that the combination of good food and conversation flavored with generous amounts of alcohol would improve the evening, the evening seemed determined to prove me wrong. As soon as I discovered that Magda’s seating arrangement had placed Bridget across from Woney, I silently thanked the powers above that my wife was abstaining from alcohol, although the conversation that followed reminded me that Bridget’s tongue is a well-oiled muscle in its own right.  
“So, Bridget,” said Woney, leaning across the table toward her, “have you considered whether or not you plan to breast-feed?” I winced. Magda cast Bridget an apologetic look that only I observed, as most of the women present were gazing in rapped attention at Woney.  
Impressively unruffled, Bridget replied, “Oh, I don’t know.”  
From the expression that passed across Woney’s face, anyone would have thought Bridget had just confessed that she eats babies. “but surely you’ve considered it? It’s one of the most important decisions you have to make about baby’s health!”  
“I can’t say I’ve thought seriously about it just yet.”  
“Not—not at all?”  
“Not really. There’s plenty of time to work all of that out. We might just put the baby out to nurse on a goat farm.”  
Woney, who appeared to be approaching an apoplectic level of incredulity, turned her gaze on me. “Mark, is she serious?”  
I gave a noncommittal shrug, knowing Bridget’s nonchalance to be enacted for the single purpose of amusing herself at Woney’s expense. “I suppose so.”  
Woney blinked. “Haven’t—haven’t the pair of you discussed this? You realize how important it is to make the right decision, surely?”  
“I can’t say I’ve given the matter much consideration.” In fact, we’ve discussed the subject at length—or at least, Bridget has hurled so much literature on the subject at me that I’ve begun to wonder whether I might develop the ability to lactate by pure osmosis of information. While I certainly care about the baby’s health and well-being, the decision seems best left to Bridget and what she thinks she can most easily accommodate. As long as she doesn’t accidentally fill the feeding bottle with pinot grigio, I have little doubt that baby will be well-fed. Realizing that the charade could easily spiral into a debate that I felt I had neither the energy nor the understanding to engage in, I endeavored to deflect further discussion. “I confess I’m not particularly well-versed in such matters,” I said delicately. “I leave that… area of expertise to Bridget.”  
“You really ought to consider nursing, Bridget,” said Woney. “It’s been statistically proven to be remarkably beneficial; really I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t consider it.”  
“I find it troubling in this day and age that women feel societally pressured to commit that extent of time and energy to child-rearing,” interjected Natasha. “As much as we claim to have removed ourselves from the domestic ideology that locates women at the center of home and hearth, we continue to thrust responsibilities on them that inhibit their ability to regain some measure of independence and individuality beyond their roles as mothers.”  
“Well,” said Bridget, “if you’re going to take up the feminist position, I really think that deciding whether or not to breast-feed should really be about letting me decide for myself whether I want my own baby hanging off my breasts.” An awkward silence fell over the table, until Jeremy broke the tension with offers of more wine.

Much to my relief, the remainder of the evening passed without incident, though I did notice Natasha’s gaze occasionally settling on Bridget with an expression I couldn’t quite place. I puzzled over it on the drive home, as well as the surprise of seeing Bridget talking quietly with Natasha in a corner before we said our goodnights. I might have quizzed her about it had an entirely unrelated twinge of unease been tugging at my insides—one that I had no desire to analyze. The return of my nightmares has troubled me more than I want to admit, and despite sharing my fears with Bridget, I still occasionally dread the hours of sleep sometimes broken by hazy visions replayed in my mind’s eye like images on a badly-tuned television. I kept my eyes resolutely on the road, signaling to Bridget that I was in no mood for conversation. I knew, however, that she wouldn’t allow me to brood in peace for long, and she set about coaxing me out of my shell as we were getting ready for bed.  
“You seem out of sorts, Mr Darcy,” she observed as she began removing her make-up. I took my time brushing my teeth, shifting my gaze in the mirror to avoid meeting her eyes.  
“Mark,” she whispered, sidling up behind me and resting a hand on the small of my back, “Something’s bothering you.” In no particular mood to enter into a discussion but uncertain how best to circumvent the question, I turned and entered the bedroom without speaking. “You seemed upset when we left Magda and Jeremy’s,” observed Bridget as we climbed into bed.  
I shrugged. “I thought the evening might have tired you,” I replied, not altogether untruthfully. “We shouldn’t have lingered as late as we did.”  
Bridget lifted a brow, opened her lips to protest, then snuggled closer and wound her arms around my back. “You worry about me too much,” she said, resting her chin on my shoulder. “You know you do.”  
“Perhaps,” I conceded. “But that isn’t what’s bothering me.” Reluctantly I turned onto my side to face her. “Tonight was one of the most awkward evenings I’ve ever had the misfortune to endure, and I’m including children’s birthday parties, law counsel dinners, and the infamous blue soup fiasco in my assessment.”  
Bridget smiled. “Cosmo and Woney were in rare form tonight. Honestly I’d have been disappointed if they hadn’t been. That’s half the fun of Magda and Jeremy’s dinner parties.”  
“You certainly handled them with your usual aplomb,” I said. “But I wasn’t thinking precisely of Cosmo and Woney.”  
Bridget nodded. “I wondered whether we’d ever get round to talking about Natasha. If it makes you feel any better, Magda felt pretty terrible when she realized she’d forgotten to give you advanced warning.”  
“Little comfort,” I grumbled. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have resented it so much had she not been so condescending toward you. I can’t exactly say her attitude surprised me, but the way she spoke to you—the way she looked at you—what did she say to you as we were leaving? What could she possibly have had to say that would be of any interest to you?”  
“You may believe it or not, but she actually wanted to apologize.”  
“Really,” I murmured. “I never thought Natasha capable of swallowing sufficient pride to apologize for anything.”  
“Honestly, Mark.” Bridget shook her head, her eyes alight with amusement. “You’re possibly the most brilliant man I’ve ever met, but you can be a complete idiot about women.”  
“Well,” I said testily, “I’ve had my hands quite full endeavoring to understand you, so forgive me If I haven’t yet got round to comprehending the female sex in general.”  
“Mark, she’s jealous. Isn’t it obvious?”  
“How ever did you manage to work that out?” I asked. “She was certainly condescending, but that’s always been Natasha’s way, as I recall.”  
“She told me, but really she didn’t need to. I could just tell. Anyway, she said she realized she was wrong about me—about us—that it’s pretty obvious how much we love each other, and that you deserve that.”  
“Well, I’m glad she approves,” I muttered.  
“Mark, don’t be like that. She never married, you know; never really thought she wanted to, not for love anyway. She was looking for more of, you know, the whole marriage-as-merger concept. It was precisely the reason she wanted to marry you.”  
“And that was precisely the reason I didn’t want to marry her,” I replied vehemently. “Honestly. What a thing to say, to you, of all people!”  
Bridget propped herself up on one elbow to look at me. “It never crossed your mind? I always wondered.”  
“Bridget, I made that mistake once. I wasn’t about to do it again.”  
This conversation was inching dangerously close to a topic I generally avoid, but before I could change the subject, Bridget picked up the thread. “She’s not exactly unhappy with her life, and I mean, she’s done reasonably well for herself. She just wonders now and then whether her life might have been different if the right person had come along.”  
I nodded. “We all play out those ‘what if’ narratives in our minds sometimes, I suppose.”  
“Mark?” Bridget snuggled closer and rested her head against my chest. “Mark, something else is bothering you.” I remained silent. I thought she had determined to let the matter drop, until she murmured, “You’ve been thinking about Daniel.” I’ve never managed to comprehend how my thoughts and feelings can be so transparent to Bridget when sometimes even I have difficulty working out what’s going on in my mind. There are few subjects that we don’t discuss with one another, but Daniel Cleaver has always stood at number one on that shortlist of topics to be generally avoided. Despite everything that transpired, Bridget has, largely for professional reasons, managed to maintain a cordial relationship with him that gradually settled into a comfortable friendship. Not being the sort of man to tell my wife whom she can and cannot associate with, I’ve chosen to just let them carry on with it; Bridget is sensible, and Daniel, other character flaws notwithstanding, genuinely cares about her, in his own way, I think.  
“How did you know?” I asked, though I had already begun to guess the trail her logic had followed. When we were first married—when Bridget first learned about the nightmares—we would, on the nights when sleep eluded me, talk softly about my experiences at school, how I’d eventually learned to cope, and through those conversations, Bridget gained a deeper understanding of my friendship with Daniel; how Daniel had been the one to coax me out of my protective shell; how Daniel, with his broad, lazy smile and his roguish good looks, had been a kind of idol to me—the boy through whom I lived vicariously and sometimes secretly wished I could be. Daniel had, in our years together, become less a friend than a brother, and that, of course, had made his betrayal so unforgivably painful.  
“You’ve been really quiet—a bit moody, actually,” Bridget said in response to my question. “And it’s natural that you’d think of Daniel from time to time, especially now.”  
As much as I’d wished to avoid the discussion, having my feelings voiced seemed to lessen the weight that had settled on my chest. Smiling, I leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “You’re right,” I said. “It feels odd, in a way, not having him around, especially now, as you say. When we were younger, before—before—everything, when I imagined my future, he was always woven into the tapestry somehow. Even so many years after the fact, disentangling him from all of it is harder than I thought it would be.”  
“You don’t have to, you know.”  
I sighed. “We’ve been through all of this before, Bridget. Some wounds run too deep. You might have forgiven him for your part, and I admire you for that, but, well…”  
“It was different for me, I understand that,” she said. “Daniel hurt me, but your situation was far more complicated. I get that.”  
“And yet you still honestly think, after all this time, that I can just forgive him?”  
“Only because you want to,” replied Bridget. “I know you want to. You’ve never fully been able to live with yourself all these years because you never forgave him. Walking away without honestly confronting the situation, without trying to come to some kind of resolution—that isn’t you, Mark; at least, it’s not the Mark I know. The Mark Darcy I know settles his scores evenly, and I don’t mean beating your opponent to a bloody pulp, by the way, not that I entirely blamed you for it.” Reluctantly I digested her words; she was appealing to my sense of honor, which is at once my greatest strength and the weak point in my armor.  
“I can’t deny that it’s been a thorn in my side all these years,” I said finally.  
“I know,” murmured Bridget, slipping her hand into mine. “I know Daniel hurt you, but you loved him, Mark. You still do; I know you do.” We lapsed into silence, and I lay contemplating all that Bridget had said, memories of Daniel spilling over the floodgates in that guarded recess of my mind. A blurry image of that long-ago Christmas Eve floated to the surface—of coming home expecting to spend a quiet evening with my wife and finding Daniel there; feeling as though someone had suddenly released all of the air from my lungs; fixing disbelieving eyes not on the woman to whom I had pledged my fidelity just weeks before, but on the man who had stood beside me as I did. I thought of Bridget; my darling, trusting Bridget, caught through no fault of her own in the web of deceit and mistrust woven between Daniel and me. Fate, it would appear, has devised its own mysterious pattern of intersections for our lives. It seems too much of a coincidence that two women should come between us. One woman has divided us; might Bridget be the means of reconciling us?  
Just as I began to slip into that comfortable, foggy cocoon between consciousness and sleep, Bridget spoke again. “He misses you too, you know.”  
“Mmm?”  
“Daniel,” she said. “He misses you too.”  
“I very much doubt he’s losing sleep over it,” I replied.  
“Maybe not, but he still regrets everything that happened.”  
“Bridget,” I said, sitting up and turning to face her, “if you’ve something to tell me, you’d best come out with it, because this convoluted meander down memory lane is trying my patience, and I’d like to get to sleep before sunrise if you’ve no objection.”  
Bridget chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip; then said, “Daniel and I had a long talk a few weeks ago—the week you were away, actually—over dinner and…”  
That invisible hand began to compress my lungs again, and I slid from bed and began to pace the room. “Bridget, I’m really not sure I want to hear this. You know I’ve never said a word against you associating with Daniel, as much as I dislike it. You’ve managed to forgive him; you’ve managed to rebuild a cordial relationship. I’ve always done my best to respect your decision. All I’ve ever asked is that you respect my wish to remain absolutely uninvolved.”  
“Honestly, Mark,” Bridget scoffed. “You’re my husband; Daniel was your best friend. We’re colleagues. Frankly I’m surprised we’ve managed to go on as long as we have acting as though you don’t exist, and it’s completely childish. You’re grown men, for fuck’s sake—both of you. It’s only really been these last few months that Daniel’s worked his way round to the subject. We talk about the baby, mostly, and how things are coming along, but we were having dinner one night while you were away, and we got talking about some of my fears—and yours—about becoming parents, and do you know what he said?”  
“I can’t imagine,” I answered, feigning indifference.  
“He looked straight at me across the table and said, ‘Mark’s going to be a bloody amazing dad. He’ll be the sort of dad I wish I could have had.’”  
“Well, that’s immensely reassuring,” I retorted. “To know that Daniel Cleaver has given my parenting potential his vote of confidence makes this all so much less intimidating.”  
“Mark, don’t be like that,” said Bridget. “He meant what he said; I’m sure he did, and he looked, not exactly sad when he said it, but just… like he wished he could be saying it to you.”  
Sighing, I sat on the edge of the bed and lowered my head into my hands. “Bridget, I don’t—I’m not sure—I’m just having a difficult time processing all of this at the moment. I hear what you’re saying. I’m just not sure I want to face up to it right now.”  
Bridget smiled and patted my hand. “No one expects you to,” she said gently. “If anything, you expect it of yourself. In the end, Mark, the only honest thing you can do is what your own conscience tells you is right.”  
I’ve since been lying awake, contemplating Bridget’s words. I’ve begun to wonder if, perhaps, the timing of all of this is momentous in a way. If I’m to teach my child, when given a choice between what is easy and what is right, to choose what is right, I’m honor-bound to uphold that principle in my own life, am I not? 


	6. eggsbenni221

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tissues. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm dealing more with Mark's relationship with his father here than with Colin, but...tissues. You will need tissues. And toss a hug in Mark's direction.

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters+epilogue  
Rating: T  
Chapter Word Count: 6370  
Summary: see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)  


Author's Note: Tissues. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'm dealing more with Mark's relationship with his father here than with Colin, but...tissues. You will need tissues. And toss a hug in Mark's direction.

> There’s a wide eyed little fellow  
> Who believes you’re always right  
> And his ears are always open  
> And he watches day and night.  
> You are setting an example  
> Every day in all you do  
> For the little boy who’s waiting  
> To grow up to be like you.  
> \- Author unknown, “For the Father of a Boy”

 

Monday 24 April  
11.00 PM

  
Nothing particularly exciting to report. Baby probably measures somewhere between 7 and 8 inches (approx.). Kicking quite vigorously at regular intervals. The sensation, according to Bridget, feels as if she’s swallowed a watermelon that’s suddenly sprouted legs. (I really didn’t need the mental picture, but suppose it’s only fair as do not actually have burden of carrying child for nine months). Taste buds have apparently begun to form, which Bridget cites as a perfectly legitimate reason for increased chocolate consumption.  
“I want my child to have a refined palate,” she explained between nibbles of a chocolate orange. “And besides, it’s fruit.”  
“I’m not entirely convinced of the nutritional value of chocolate oranges,” I pointed out, endeavoring without success to slide them out of her reach. She retaliated by pouncing on me, which, in her present condition, I have to admit was a rather impressive maneuver.  
“Mark Darcy! You should be disbarred for that.”  
“What on earth for?” I asked.  
“Human rights violation!”  
I frowned. “For looking after the health of my future offspring?”  
“For snatching chocolate from your pregnant wife,” she corrected.  
“Oh, I see.” I reached out and gently drummed my fingers on her stomach. “Well, I think I might be able to distract you from the pangs of hunger.”  
“Really?” Bridget arched a brow. “And how do you propose doing that?” Instead of answering, I slipped my hands beneath her blouse to cradle her breasts.  
As the pregnancy has advanced, the intensity and frequency of physical intimacy Bridget and I have been used to enjoying has become increasingly challenging, and yet I’ve become reacquainted with the pleasure of simply holding her, tracing the nuanced curves beneath my fingers—the barely discernable shape of the life we’ve begun to create together.  
With a squeal of protest, Bridget attempted to wriggle out of my grasp. “I don’t know how you can bear to look at me,” she said, shielding herself with a cushion.  
“Bridget,” I murmured, reaching for her again.  
“Don’t try to tell me I’m beautiful,” she protested. “I’m hideous!”  
“Sh. Don’t say that about the mother of my child,” I whispered, leaning in to kiss her. She slipped her arms around my back, and I instinctively rolled my shoulders beneath her hands as her fingers pressed the ever-present tension that always settles itself there in relentless nots. Even as her hands worked their way up my neck, leaving a delicious trail of heat on my skin, I recalled having observed her wincing and pressing a hand to her back several times throughout the evening. Tenderly I tugged on her hands, placing my own on her shoulders and turning her.  
“I think you’ve earned yourself a neck rub for a change.” To make things more comfortable, we decided to relocate to the bedroom, where I performed the offered services (and, inevitably, others not originally a part of the package but equally appreciated).  
“I’m sorry we don’t get to do that quite as often these days,” Bridget said drowsily, resting a hand against her belly.  
“It’s all right,” I assured her. “You’ve reminded me how much I just love to hold you sometimes.”  
Smiling, Bridget snuggled beneath my arm. “Sometimes I think you take better care of me than you do of yourself, Mark.”  
I kissed the top of her head. “The things we do for love.” Sometimes, at its simplest, life can seem so… perfect.

 

Tuesday 25 April  
10.30 PM

  
Completely shattered. Hardly know where to begin. Forcing myself to form complete sentences seems to require Herculean strength. What cruel tricks life can play on us sometimes, luring us into a false sense of security only to yank the rug out from beneath us when we least expect it.  
I left the house in a bit of a hurry this morning, preoccupied with mentally sifting through the schedule of meetings that stretched out endlessly in front of me. The moment I arrived at chambers, I fetched myself a strong cup of black coffee, switched my mobile into silent mode, and spent the entire morning navigating the treacherous waters of international diplomacy. At around 1.00 PM, a discreet tap at the conference room door interrupted the proceedings, and my secretary, Marcie, put her head in. Knowing that only an emergency of apocalyptic proportions would cause her to disrupt the meeting, I hurriedly excused myself and stepped into the corridor.  
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr Darcy,” she began. “I knew you wouldn’t want to be disturbed but--”  
“What is it, Marcie?” I interrupted, rather more abruptly in my agitation than I might ordinarily have done.  
“Your wife called. She’s been trying to reach you on your mobile all morning. I told her you--”  
“Bridget? What’s wrong? Is she all right?”  
“It’s nothing to do with the baby,” Marcie assured me. “But she really needs you to call her. It sounded urgent, or I don’t think she’d have rung the office, but she couldn’t reach you, and she didn’t know what else to do. I offered to come and fetch you, but she couldn’t wait. She just told me to have you call her at the first opportunity.”  
“Did she say what was the matter?” I asked, withdrawing my mobile from my suit jacket pocket with a shaking hand.  
“No, she wanted to talk to you directly.”  
Taking a calming breath, I immediately spotted a series of increasingly frantic texts from Bridget followed by a voicemail that I suspected would be largely unintelligible given the contents of the first text: ‘At hospital. Dad not well. Can you get here?’ As I scrolled through the succeeding messages, I realized that I must have forgotten to remind Bridget of my schedule for the day, not that any of that mattered now. The final message, sent just 20 minutes earlier, made me wince: ‘Mark, where the bloody fuck are you? This is all bad enough without having to worry about you now!’ Bracing myself for a well-deserved tirade, I began automatically to pace the corridor as I retrieved the voicemail.  
“Mark, it’s me. I don’t know what’s going on, but please, please call. I just—really, really need you right now.”  
Scolding myself, I quickly returned the call. “Shit,” I muttered as I waited for the line to engage. “Shit, shit, shit.”  
“Mark?” My stomach dropped as Pam’s voice, not Bridget’s, greeted me.  
“Shit,” I muttered again before I could stop myself. “Pam, I—yes, I’m sorry.” Even under the circumstances, I had to suppress the urge to laugh as I pictured the dismay on my mother-in-law’s face.  
“Oh, Mark, thank Heaven! We’ve been waiting for you to call!”  
“Where’s Bridget?” I demanded.  
“She’s just gone to the loo, Mark.” I breathed a sigh of relief, immediately feeling guilty when I recollected the reason for the call.  
“Pam, what’s going on? What’s happened? Bridget said something about Colin.”  
“We’re not quite sure. I’m waiting to speak to the doctor now, but it looks like pneumonia, which, in his condition, well…”  
“Good God. You must be frantic. I’m so sorry I didn’t call earlier. I must have neglected to let Bridget know I’d be tied up in meetings all day.” Thankfully, Pam refrained from admonishing me.  
“Mark, can you get here?” she asked.  
I couldn’t very well just walk out on a room full of dignitaries, but I couldn’t abandon my wife either. Noticing that Marcie still stood a polite distance away, I signaled for her to wait before responding to Pam. “Of course. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner. Is there anything you need? Can I do anything for you?”  
“No, dear. Thank you. Just get here as soon as you can.”  
“Of course. Absolutely. And… tell Bridget not to worry,” I added pointlessly. Ending the call, I raked a hand through my hair and turned back to Marcie. “My father-in-law—he’s been taken to hospital,” I said in answer to her questioning glance. She nodded. “Marcie, this is terribly awkward, but I’m afraid I have to leave. I’d rather not, of course, but I don’t see how--”  
“I’ll handle everything here,” she said firmly. I glanced at the door; then down at my phone; then back at the door. “It’s all right, Mr Darcy.”  
I sighed. “The world’s problems don’t exactly wait,” I said, caught between personal and professional obligation.  
“At the risk of sounding too forward, sir,” Marcie replied, “your family is your world.”  
I smiled. “You’re absolutely right.” And with Marcie’s assurances, I took my leave.

The scene that greeted me when I arrived at the hospital did little to assuage my guilt. I found Bridget sitting with her head against her mother’s shoulder while Pam patted her hand. Pam looked up when she saw me approaching, the lines of tension in her face relaxing into a smile of relief.  
“Ah, and here’s Mark! There now, Bridget. You see? It’s all right. I told you he’d come. Didn’t I tell you?”  
Acknowledging her gabbling with a quick glance, I went immediately to Bridget, crouching in front of her and taking her hands in mine. She raised her head and stood when she saw me, but the next moment her legs gave way beneath her, and she might have collapsed had I not caught hold of her and helped her to sit again. She blinked several times to clear her vision, and when I felt certain that she had regained some degree of composure, I took the seat beside her and pulled her to me.  
“Darling, I’m so sorry,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I ought to have been here sooner.”  
“I wish you had been,” she said wearily.  
“How’s your father?”  
“He’s stable,” said Bridget, resting her head against my chest. “But they’ll be keeping him till they feel they can get things under control.”  
“I think I’ll just go and see if I can find out where the doctor’s got to,” said Pam, patting Bridget’s shoulder and flashing me a grateful smile as she hurried away.  
“You look exhausted,” I observed, reaching to brush Bridget’s hair away from her face.  
“I’m all right now. I’m just really, really glad you’re here, Mark.”  
“I’m only sorry I couldn’t be here sooner,” I said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t think to remind you this morning about my schedule today. I’m actually a bit surprised you’re not more upset about it.”  
Bridget shrugged. “I could try and get worked up about it if you’d like, but that requires energy.”  
I smiled. “Do us both a favor and spare yourself the trouble.” Bridget snuggled closer to me, and I wrapped my arms around her. “If I could promise you that everything’s going to be all right, I would,” I murmured, kissing the top of her head. “But I can’t do that. The only thing I can promise you is that you never have to go through any of this alone.” Bridget nodded, covering my hand with hers and giving it a squeeze. We fell silent, our arms wound around each other. Across the room, a television news report droned on about traffic and the latest squabbles in Parliament. Around us people whispered, wept, prayed, or mechanically turned the pages of magazines. I stroked the edge of my thumb across the curve of Bridget’s belly and allowed myself to smile. Eventually Bridget nodded off with her head against my shoulder until Pam returned. She gazed at me with misty eyes for several moments, and as my eyes met hers, I recognized, in a moment of clarity that perhaps only my own impending parenthood could have granted me, a tenderness in her look that I had rarely appreciated. I remembered Colin’s words to me when he first broke the news of his cancer diagnosis—about his relief over not having to worry about Bridget—and I understood Pam’s overbearing scrutiny and hen-like clucking as I never had before.  
“How is he?” I whispered.  
“He’s comfortable. He’s asleep now. He’d have wanted to see you, I’m sure, but--”  
“I’ll come round to sit with him for a bit tomorrow,” I offered. “I don’t think there’s really any point driving back to London tonight, and in any case, I’m sure Bridget will want to stay with you.”  
Pam smiled. “Thank you, dear,” she murmured.  
Bridget roused herself just then and caught sight of her mother. “Mum, what’s going on?”  
“Daddy’s asleep, dumpling. It’s all right.”  
“I’ll sit with him for a bit,” said Bridget, starting to her feet.  
“I think not.” Gently I rested a hand on her arm to restrain her. “Bridget, you’re exhausted. I know you want to be on the spot, but there’s nothing you can really do here right now, and you won’t be any good to anyone else if you don’t look after yourself.”  
“Mark, I can’t just leave him.”  
“Sh. Listen to me. We’ll stay with your mother tonight and come straight back here tomorrow morning.” When Bridget opened her lips to protest, I reached to cradle her face in my hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. “Bridget,” I whispered, tracing my thumb along the curve of her cheek, “I know how worried you must be right now, but I need you to do something for me, all right?”  
“What?”  
“I need you to trust me. Just trust me. Can you try to do that? Please?” Bridget hesitated; then gave me a tremulous smile. “There. That’s it.” I slipped her hand into mine as I stood. “I’m going to get you home and pop you into bed.”

Back at the house, Pam bustled about making tea, arranging and re-arranging a plate of biscuits, offering Bridget cushions, and glaring at me each time I offered to lift a finger. Bridget lay on the sofa with her head in my lap, half-dozing as she toyed with the edge of the blanket I’d tucked around her. Minutes dragged past, as if the day itself had grown weary with the weight it had carried. When Bridget began to drift into sleep, I managed to coax her upstairs and into bed, promising to join her shortly. Still alert with the lingering tension of the day, however, I returned downstairs and sat absent-mindedly skimming the pages of a book until Pam spoke.  
“Mark, perhaps I ought to have said this sooner, but Colin and I—we’re so grateful to you. You’ve been wonderfully supportive. It’s quite enough to be getting on with having a baby on the way, and now, well…”  
“We don’t plan these things to happen,” I replied. “You’re Bridget’s family, and you’re my family, and this is where we’re needed right now.”  
“I’ve been watching, you know, Mark—the way you’ve just taken all of this in hand so wonderfully. It does my heart good, seeing how you support each other. I think—well, I think you and Bridget are going to be wonderful parents. You take such good care of each other.”  
“Thank you,” I murmured. “It still seems such a frightening prospect, and with anyone but Bridget, I don’t think I’d be brave enough to even consider it.”  
“You’ll make mistakes, of course. No parent is perfect.”  
“Rationally, it’s easy enough to remind ourselves of that, but I think Bridget is convinced that if she doesn’t get it precisely right, she’s going to produce this bitter, psychologically scarred human being who’ll go on to publish one of those tell-all books about what a neurotic mother she was.”  
“I highly doubt that will happen,” said Pam. “Bridget’s biggest problem is self-confidence.”  
“I wish you’d tell her that,” I said.  
“Would it mean anything, I wonder, coming from me? Bridget and I, well, it’s not exactly that we don’t get on. It’s more—I don’t know—Colin’s always seemed to understand her better than I ever could. I’ve only ever wanted her to be happy, but perhaps sometimes I’ve projected my own idea of what that means onto her life. We’ve always seemed to be at odds.”  
“Not always. I mean, she did marry me, eventually.”  
Pam waved a dismissive hand at my words. “Oh, well, you know, that’s different. The two of you were always meant for each other. It was just a question of convincing you to see it, but…” She sighed. “There I go again.”  
“Bridget needs you,” I said. “I know it might not always appear that way, but she does, and I think she’ll begin to realize that before too long. You’ll be able to support her in ways that I can’t.”  
“I hope so.” As we lapsed into silence, I began finally to feel the day’s fatigue settling on me and had just begun to nod off when Pam roused me. “Good heavens, look at me, chattering on, as if you wanted to listen to an old woman’s prattle. Poor dear, you must be absolutely exhausted.”  
“I’m not going to pretend otherwise,” I said, failing to suppress a yawn as I stood. “Will you be all right?”  
Pam gave me a brave smile. “I’ll be fine, dear.”  
“Are you quite sure?”  
“Go on,” she insisted, waving me toward the stairs. “Upstairs and into bed, this instant.”  
“Yes, mam.”  
“Mark?” I turned back expectantly. Pam crossed the room, put her arms about me, and kissed my cheek. “Thank you, dear,” she whispered.  
“You’re more than welcome,” I replied, returning her embrace.

Bridget stirred as I tiptoed into our room.  
“Mark?” she said groggily.  
“Sh, it’s all right,” I whispered, crawling into bed beside her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”  
“I was starting to wonder where you’d got to,” she said.  
I draped an arm across her shoulders and bent to kiss her. “Everything’s all right. I promise. I was having a chat with your mum.”  
“What?” Bridget pulled away from me and sat up. “Mark, you don’t chat with my mum. No one chats with my mum. Chatting implies you actually have the chance to say something.”  
“I think she needed someone to talk to,” I said.  
Bridget nodded. “I’ve been trying to be a bit more patient with her now with, you know, everything that’s been going on.”  
“I think it’s important that you both try to meet each other half way in that respect.”  
“You’re right,” agreed Bridget. “It’s just so hard sometimes, you know? We can be getting on so well, and the next minute, we seem not to understand each other at all. Most of the time, I just feel like she doesn’t think I can take care of myself.”  
“I know it must seem that way,” I said, reaching for her hand, “but I don’t think that’s how it’s meant. Look at it from her perspective. She’s got so used to caring for you—so used to being a parent—that I think it must be hard to unlearn that behavior. It’s something I think I’ve only just begun to appreciate.”  
Bridget nodded. “I think I know what you mean,” she said. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how finding out I was pregnant and finding out about Dad, happening almost together, has sort of put things into perspective. All that time, all those years my mum kept harping on me about finding a man, it drove me mad, but I think, now, that she just didn’t want me to be on my own when, you know… she and dad wouldn’t be around anymore. And you know something?” Bridget snuggled closer and slid her arms around me. “I’m really glad I’m not. I don’t know if I’ve said it lately, but you’ve been incredible, Mark. You really, really have been.”  
I smiled. “Give yourself a bit of credit, Bridget. Do I need to remind you that you’re the one going about with another human being inside you?”  
Bridget laughed. “Not when it feels more and more every day like there’s a baby elephant moving around in my uterus.” As I placed the flat of my hand against Bridget’s stomach, I felt that now-familiar flutter of movement that tugged at my heart like a pair of tiny hands.  
“I love when you can feel that,” whispered Bridget, resting her hand atop mine.  
“So do I,” I murmured.  
“Mark?” Bridget looked up at me, a sudden glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Mark, do you—I mean, what if—what if Dad’s not—not here, when the baby’s born, I mean?” I felt a lump rise in my throat and silently pulled her head to my chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “That was stupid of me.”  
“No, it wasn’t,” I assured her. “Of course you can’t help wondering.”  
“But what’s the point of it, really? I mean, what is wondering going to solve? It’s not as if there’s anything I can do about it. It’s not as if I can just say, oh, here, let’s just move the whole thing up a bit. Tralalala. I’ll just pop it out a bit earlier than planned, as if the baby is a fucking pot-roast, and I can just raise the temperature, and poof!” She made a noise something between a laugh and a strangled sob, and I rubbed my cheek against the top of her head. Eventually she drifted off to sleep, and I’ve been lying here, wondering what I can do when I know that ultimately the only answer is nothing.

Wednesday 26 April  
8.00 PM

  
Left Bridget at the hospital with Colin this morning to give her a bit of privacy to visit with him, and thought I might just visit with my parents, who were delighted to see me despite the reason that had brought me.  
“Mark, I’m so glad you came round,” said my mother, smiling and pulling me into an embrace. “I didn’t expect to see you under the circumstances.”  
“I can’t stay long,” I said, bending to kiss her cheek. “But I thought I’d pop in for a bit.”  
“Well, we’re awfully glad you did, dear.”  
Laying aside his paper, my father rose from his chair to greet me. “Good to see you, son.”  
“And you,” I replied as we grasped hands.  
“Terribly sorry to hear about Colin,” he said. “How is he?”  
“As well as can be expected,” I answered. “I’ve not had a chance to see him yet. I’ll go round again later, after Bridget’s had some time alone with him.”  
My mother frowned. “Mark, you look exhausted.” I didn’t deny it. “You sit right down, and I’ll get you a cup of tea.” When we were all comfortably settled, my mother asked how Pam was bearing up.  
“Surprisingly calm,” I said. “I think she’s making a concerted effort to hold herself together for Bridget’s sake.”  
“You’ll tell her if she needs anything, she only has to ask.” I nodded. “And how’s Bridget?”  
I sighed. “Physically, she’s doing really well. Emotionally, everything’s taken a toll on her.”  
My mother nodded. “It’s understandable.”  
“Not that she isn’t coping,” I continued. “Because she is. She’s had so many mixed emotions to sift through, and she’s not pretending none of it is happening.”  
“Best to just face up to these things,” my father commented gruffly.  
To soften the remark, my mother reached for my hand. “I know how hard this must all be for you as well, Mark,” she murmured. My eyes moistened at her touch, and I quickly lowered my gaze.  
“I hate seeing what this is doing to her,” I said. “I just wish sometimes that there were something more I could do.”  
“Son, the only thing you can do is remain strong,” said my father. “You can offer Bridget all the love and support in the world, but you can’t shield her from the inevitable.”  
“Really, Malcolm.” My mother shot him a glare.  
“I’m simply telling it like it is, Elaine. He needs to face up to this like a man.” Turning back to me, he continued, “You can’t give in to the fear, Mark. You can’t give in to the weakness.”  
“Weakness?” In mounting frustration, I dropped my mother’s hand and stood, reflexively pacing the room. “Is that what you’d call this?” I demanded.  
“Mark, haven’t I always told you that the times in your life when you’re most afraid are the times that call on you to find out what sort of man you are?”  
“And a real man is fearless, I suppose?” I snapped.  
“Good God, Mark, if we had no fear, we’d have no need for bravery!” my father boomed.  
"How many times have you heard me say that?” As I met his eyes, I wondered if I were being given a glimpse of what my own son might see when he looks at me some day. In that moment, I experienced a startling rupture in the image I’ve always held of my father—the difference between the man he is and the man I have always desired him to be. As much as I hold my father in high esteem, I can’t deny that there were times as a boy that I resented his lack of tenderness, believing that if I worked harder, stood straighter, and held my head higher, I might earn the affection I craved. Now, however, I realize that, lack of demonstrative affection notwithstanding, my father showed his love by giving me all that lay in his power to give: his courage, his discipline, and his sound moral compass, all of which have served me well. To ask or expect him to be what he wasn’t was as futile as trying to move a mountain by laying my shoulder to it. Yet in realizing this, I realize too that I can no more demand this of myself than I can demand it of him. I can love my father; I can respect him, and yet, to do either does not mean I must cast myself in his image.  
I recognize all of this now, in hindsight, but in that moment, I saw, as I stared at my father, only the void of my unfulfilled need.  
“I wonder,” I said wearily, “if you could stop being a military man for a moment, and just be my father? Are you capable of that?” When he didn’t respond, I turned away, my shoulders sagging under the weight of my exhaustion.  
“Mark,” my mother said quietly, “sit down. Come. Your father didn’t mean to--”  
“No, Mother. Please.” I held up a hand to silence her. “I don’t—I can’t do this right now. I should be going. I must get back to Bridget.” To soften the dismissal, I crossed the room and bent to press a kiss to her cheek. After a moment’s hesitation, I straightened and forced myself to look at my father.  
“Mark, I…” he began, then lowered his eyes.  
“Let’s not speak of it,” I said quietly before offering my mother a reassuring smile and taking my leave.

I drove to the hospital with my mind in a whirl, at once dismayed and impressed with my forthright outburst. Yet I knew, even as I savored the moment of hard-won triumph, that I needed to remedy the situation.  
“Mark!” Bridget glanced up when I entered her father’s room, her eyes lit with a smile that immediately set to thawing the hard knot of ice that had begun to form in my chest. “I didn’t expect to see you until later.”  
“I thought I’d come and relieve your watch,” I said, stooping to give her a swift kiss before turning to Colin, who smiled sleepily at the exchange. “How are you?” I asked, resting a hand on his shoulder.  
“Oh, you know, could be better, but could be far worse. I’ve got the best nurse in the world,” said Colin, squeezing Bridget’s hand. I smiled.  
“I thought you were visiting your parents,” said Bridget.  
“I was.”  
“Is something wrong?” she asked, arching a brow at my glib response.  
“Nothing in the world. My mother sends her love, and she’s made me promise to tell you that if you need anything, you know how to find her.” Bridget nodded. “If you’re tired, I can sit here for a bit—give you a chance to stretch your legs.”  
“Actually, I might take you up on that,” said Bridget, pressing a hand to the small of her back as she stood. “Dad, is it all right if I leave you with Mark for a bit?”  
Colin patted her hand. “You go on, poppet. I’ll be just fine.”  
“Well, all right.” Bridget leaned down to peck his cheek. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  
“How are your parents?” Colin asked as I took Bridget’s vacated seat beside the bed.  
“They’re well, thank you. They send their regards. I’m sure they’ll want to look in on you at some point.”  
“Mark, I don’t mean to pry, but something’s troubling you.” I leaned my head on my hand, considering the morning’s altercation with my father; then found myself spilling out the entire story.  
“I’m sorry,” I said when I’d finished, “for pouring that into your lap.”  
“You had to tell someone,” replied Colin. “Couldn’t just carry it around with you. That wouldn’t have done you any good.”  
I sighed. “I don’t know why I suddenly got so angry. I knew I couldn’t go to him seeking reassurance; at least, that wasn’t my intention.”  
“Maybe not consciously,” said Colin. “But I think you always wanted it, and it seems natural enough that you’d want it now especially.”  
I nodded. “We’re always taught as boys that the highest form of respect we can show our fathers is to turn out just like them, but I realize now that I can’t just be an exact replica of my father.”  
“I’ve known Malcolm for quite a long time, you know. He’s a good man.” I nodded. “But so are you, Mark. In your own way.”  
“I love my father,” I said. “I respect him, but, well…”  
“But he wasn’t perfect,” Colin finished.  
“That goes without saying, doesn’t it?”  
“We all look back on the way we raised our children and think about what we could’ve done differently. It’ll be the same with you and Bridget, I expect. It won’t mean you’ve done a bad job; it will just mean you’ve acknowledged that you’ve made mistakes.”  
“It’s still a terrifying prospect,” I admitted. “You can’t very well wipe the slate clean and make a new start every time you make a decision that turns out not to have been correct. You’re dealing with a human life. The one thing I always wished I’d had more of from my father was affection. It isn’t precisely fair to say he got it wrong, because that wasn’t the sort of man he was, and I realize now that it’s futile to resent him for not giving me something that wasn’t in his nature to give.”  
“But that doesn’t mean you have to suppress that, if you think it’s important,” said Colin.  
“I do. I think,” I paused, smiling as I considered my words, “that Bridget’s taught me a great deal about tenderness. Children need that, from both of their parents. I want our child to grow up with strength and moral fortitude, and a sense of structure.”  
“Don’t look to Bridget for structure,” Colin chuckled.  
“Don’t I know it. That’s just it, though; I think, or at least I hope, that we can balance each other out, and yet I don’t want to rely on Bridget to compensate for any lack of affection on my part, just as I don’t expect to have to be the sole disciplinarian. I want our child to feel safe—to feel like he—or she—has a support system in place for the times when things don’t go quite right. I don’t want to raise a child who’s afraid to make mistakes, who’s afraid to learn and grow as much from failure as from success. I want to do what’s right. I’m just not sure what that is.”  
“I think,” Colin said thoughtfully, “that right now, the thing to do is to talk to Malcolm.” I sighed. “Mark, look at it this way. Everything you say about your father, about it being unfair to resent him for not being a different person, that’s all well and good, but you also can’t expect him to try to meet you half way if you don’t let him know how you feel.”  
“I suppose you’re right,” I agreed.  
Colin smiled. “I’m pretty sure I am. You get to be my age, Mark, and you learn a few things about life, and I’m pretty sure that if you want to get a head start on being a good dad, you can learn a lot by working on the relationship you have with yours.” We chatted comfortably for a few more minutes until Bridget returned.  
“How have you two been behaving?” she asked, bending to peck her father’s cheek in greeting.  
“Impeccably,” I answered, rising and gesturing for her to resume her seat. “Would you be terribly offended if I left you?” I continued, glancing at my watch.  
“Of course not.” Bridget smiled. “I’m sure you’ve brought work with you. I don’t want to keep you from that.”  
“Right then. Call me when you’re feeling tired.”  
“Promise.” She rose on tiptoe to brush her lips against mine. I held her to me for a moment; then turned and rested a hand on Colin’s shoulder before departing.

Before I could rationalize myself out of the decision, I drove back to my parents’ house. When my father opened the door, we stared at each other for several moments without speaking.  
“Mark,” he said finally.  
“I know you weren’t expecting me. Forgive me. May I come in?” He stood back, gesturing me inside.  
“Mark.” My mother, who sat reading a book, rose from the sofa when she saw me. “Is everything all right?”  
“Nothing’s the matter,” I assured her. “At least, not exactly. I only wondered… I wanted to…” I trailed off, glancing back at my father. With a swift, reassuring smile, my mother nodded and withdrew, though not far, I suspected. My father and I stood in awkward silence for several moments, cautiously meeting one another’s gazes and quickly withdrawing them again.  
“Mark,” my father said finally, “I don’t know what it is you expect me to say to you.”  
I straightened my shoulders and lifted my eyes to look directly at him. “Then let me do the talking. I suppose I owe you an apology. I ought not to have spoken to you as I did. Forgive me.”  
“On the contrary, I wondered when you’d ever get around to saying that.”  
“Yes, but—hang on. You what?”  
“Son, let’s not beat about the bush. I know you’ve often felt that I came down, well, rather hard on you as a boy, but to be frank, I think it’s served you rather well. I don’t hold with that namby-pamby, mummy-cuddling nonsense that, well…”  
“That Bridget has been filling my head with?” I supplied.  
“I wouldn’t have put it precisely like that, but--”  
“But it’s what you meant. Look, Father, either we’re going to do this honestly, or we might as well not bother. I think we both know that if Bridget has had anything to do with this, she only managed to excavate things that have been festering for quite some time. You know how much I respect you, and I’m the first to admit how much I owe to your self-discipline and, you’ll forgive me, your exacting nature.”  
“The truth is, Mark, you have such a kind heart, but with kindness there also comes softness, and it’s that softness that can turn the kindest of hearts into a weakness rather than a strength. The soft hearts are the ones that get taken advantage of the most. In rearing you as I did, I hoped to avoid nurturing too much of that softness of character that might be the downfall of your greatest strength, but I must admit, I’ve sometimes wondered whether I overcompensated.”  
“You did the best you could,” I said. “I think, in a way, I always knew that, and I couldn’t really have asked more of you than that.”  
“All I wanted,” continued my father, “was to see you grow into a strong, honest, capable man, and that’s who I see.” He paused, considered me for several moments, then reached out and grasped my shoulder. “You’ll do all right, son.” Our eyes met, and I nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. My mother’s appearance spared either of us finding words to fill the silence, and her smile offered the only indication that she knew anything of what had passed between us.  
“Well,” I said, glancing down at my watch, “I’m sorry to dash off again, but I really mustn’t stay.”  
“When do you return to London?” asked my father.  
“I’m not entirely certain. A few days, I expect; Bridget might stay a bit longer, if she hasn’t got any pressing work commitments. I’ll probably stay on until Sunday.”  
“Well, do let us know how Colin gets on.” I nodded, and we exchanged a quick embrace before I turned to my mother.  
“Mark,” she said, touching my cheek, “I wish you’d take a bit of time for yourself. You’ve had so much to deal with, and you’re looking tired.”  
“I’ll be all right, Mother,” I assured her.  
“Well,” she sighed, “promise me you’ll look after yourself.”  
“I will,” I said, giving her a swift kiss on the cheek and taking my leave. My conversation with my father has given me much to consider. I have a nagging suspicion that, caught in the right moment, I might be more easily persuaded by Bridget’s arguments regarding the potential pitfalls of boarding school. 


	7. eggsbenni221

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221 in 10 chapters+epilogue  
Rating: T  
Chapter Word Count: 4739  
Summary: see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)  


> Trust is like a paper. Once it’s crumpled it can never be perfect again.  
> \- Author Unknown
>
>>  
>> 
>> Monday 1 May  
> 7.30 PM
>> 
>>   
> Back in London, sadly without Bridget, but she feels needed in Grafton Underwood, and my wish that she would look after herself more diligently notwithstanding, I recognize that this is what life requires of her at the moment. My desire to have her home with me is, I confess, largely selfish. I was too exhausted last night to pay much heed to the silence of the empty house when I returned, but when I arrived home from work tonight, I felt oddly detached as I went through the motions of my evening rituals. Clattering about the kitchen, searching for misplaced corkscrews and coffee cups, I suddenly felt like a stranger in my own home—a feeling I’ve not experienced since I first asked Bridget to move in with me. The idea that a person can’t live without another seems terribly cliché, until you suddenly realize that the simple truth of it has as much to do with one’s inability to locate edible food in the refrigerator as it has to do with love.
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> Thursday 11 May  
> 11.15 PM
>> 
>>   
> Life has returned to a state that I suppose resembles normal, though I seem to be moving through each day wrapped in a weirdly insulated fog of exhaustion—hardly surprising since, with Bridget still in Grafton Underwood with her parents, sleep has once again eluded me. I plunge myself headlong into work each day, hoping to return home weary enough to fall gratefully into deep, preferably dreamless sleep. Yet here I sit, my eyes aching with tiredness, but unable to find relief. How I long for Bridget—the warm weight of her beside me, her hair tickling my face, the soft, sleepy look in her eyes when she first wakes, like a morning sky shrouded in a dewy mist.  
> Bridget can do little more for her parents just now than offer moral support, but knowing what a comfort she is to Colin, I can’t object despite my concern for her health as well. Colin was released from hospital earlier this week, and I’ve convinced Bridget to return home tomorrow with the additional condition that she allow me to make the drive to collect her instead of making the return trip on her own. The minor argument that just broke out over this negotiation, I submit, lies at the root of the throbbing headache currently plaguing me. I came home from a quiet dinner with Jeremy and Magda (Magda has taken it upon herself to “look after me” while Bridget has been seeing to her father) and decided (or miscalculated) that the moderate quantity of scotch I’d imbibed would arm me sufficiently for convincing Bridget to return home.  
> “Mark, Hi.” Bridget’s cheerful greeting when she answered the phone tugged the corners of my mouth into a tired smile. “How are you? Did you go round to Jeremy and Magda’s for dinner again tonight?”  
> “Yes,” I said, resting back on Bridget’s side of the bed and pressing my cheek against her pillow.  
> “Has Magda been taking care of you?”  
> I rolled my shoulders, endeavoring to release the knots of tension in my muscles. “Not as well as you do.”  
> “You sound tired,” she said. I didn’t deny it. In a manner that reminded me eerily of Pam, Bridget began suggesting every remedy under the sun from hot showers, to alcohol (not surprising) to sleeping pills.  
> “Bridget,” I said, interrupting her laundry list of already-tried and failed solutions, “I think you should come home.” When she hesitated, I continued, “Look, I’ve got tomorrow relatively open. I thought I’d drive over and collect you.”  
> “Mark, are you sure? You’ve been so busy this week.”  
> “You’ll have to come home some time,” I pointed out.  
> She sighed. “I know. I just—can’t bear the thought of leaving. I’m not sure Mum can cope.”  
> “Bridget, you need to look after yourself too. Your parents understand that. It’s easy to overlook how much strain this is placing on you when you’re keeping busy, but I’m worried about you.”  
> “Mark, I really wish you’d stop trying to thrust this delicate, pregnant wife narrative on me. I can look after myself.”  
> “Fine, let me put it more plainly,” I said. “I miss you.”  
> “I miss you too,” she murmured, the warmth of her smile in her voice.  
> “Right then. It’s settled. I’ll drive over tomorrow afternoon.”  
> “Well…”  
> “Bridget, don’t argue with me about this.”  
> “Okay,” she relented. “You’re right, but you have to promise to stop being so overprotective.”  
> “I prefer to think of it as being vigilant,” I said.  
> “Call it whatever you like, Mark. It’s driving me mad.”  
> I sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s only because I love you.”  
> “I know. That’s why I put up with it.” We spoke for a few more minutes until the struggle to keep my eyes open became futile, and I reluctantly said goodnight. I’ll be glad to have Bridget home again—to have her fill the empty spaces in the house with her laughter. Felt comfortably sleepy after ending the call, but of course am now wide awake again.
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> Friday 12 May  
> 7.30 AM
>> 
>>   
> Woke this morning with a headache even more frightfully intense than when I went to sleep. I’d hoped that nothing more than a good night’s rest would be required to alleviate it, but such, apparently, was not my fate. A cup of strong coffee and a dose of paracetamol did little to remedy my discomfort. Nonetheless, after a quick shower, I feel just human enough to pop into chambers and tidy up a few loose ends before setting out for Grafton Underwood. I’d like to avoid the pressures of work casting a shadow over the weekend, which I intend to spend entirely with Bridget. I recall her mentioning a work-related social engagement for tomorrow evening to which I feel morally obligated to accompany her in an act of spousal, self-sacrificial love. Still, barring any other commitments, I intend to keep her almost entirely to myself.
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> Saturday 13 May  
> 7.30 PM
>> 
>>   
> Bridget is home. I’m still endeavoring to extract the events of yesterday from the mist of fatigue into which they seem to have dissolved. I managed to collect Bridget from her parents’ without incident, though alarmingly have no recollection of actually driving to Grafton Underwood. After lingering for a while over a late lunch with her parents, we returned home. Bridget’s chatter buzzed round the edges of my brain as I focused on keeping myself awake during the drive back to London, until one comment pierced the fog that threatened to engulf me.  
> “Baby names.”  
> “Pardon?” I said, realizing guiltily that I hadn’t taken in a word she’d said.  
> “We should really start thinking about baby names, Mark.”  
> I shrugged, internally bracing myself. “And I take that to mean you’ve been giving the matter your consideration during your absence?”  
> “Haven’t you?” Bridget arched a brow. “I’d have thought you would, considering your more detail-oriented than I am.”  
> “To be honest,” I admitted, “sometimes I still can’t quite wrap my head around the notion. It’s still so—intangible.”  
> Bridget rolled her eyes. “Easy for you to say.” One of my hands rested loosely on the steering-wheel, and I felt Bridget reach for it and place it against the curve of her stomach. “Is this tangible enough for you?”  
> For just a moment, I slid my eyes from the road to meet hers, and the throbbing in my temples lessened slightly as we shared a smile. “Well then,” I said, shifting my attention back to the traffic, “what did you have in mind?” To my amusement, Bridget withdrew a notebook crammed with scribbling. “Let’s see,” she muttered, flicking through the pages. “Well, for a boy, what about Taran? It means thunder, apparently.”  
> “That sounds slightly ominous,” I observed. “What about Afia, if it’s a girl? It means born on a Friday.”  
> “I wonder whether that wouldn’t be a bit restrictive if, say, she’s born on a Tuesday,” I pointed out.  
> “Mark, do you have to be so literal about everything?”  
> “With all due respect, Bridget, since we’re discussing the identity of our future offspring, I’d rather not take any chances. Where did you come up with these names anyway? But I’m almost afraid to ask.”  
> “The internet,” Bridget explained. “Baby Name Generator. Dad and I couldn’t sleep the other night, so we started messing about with it, for a laugh.”  
> “As amusing as that sounds, do you really want to leave our child’s identity to the fate of an algorithm?”  
> “Well, I don’t see you racking your brains to come up with anything,” she huffed, slamming shut the notebook.  
> I frowned, effecting a look of intense concentration that did little for my headache. “Archibald?” I suggested.  
> Bridget scowled. “When I told you not to take things so seriously, I didn’t mean go and be completely ridiculous.”  
> “Well, I wonder if we might just simplify things a bit.” I paused. “What about… Mark?”  
> Bridget stared out the window, chewing on her lower lip as she digested my question. “I’m—not sure.”  
> “Bridget, if you’re going to tell me after all these years that you’ve never fancied my name, I’m going to feel cruelly used. It’s not exactly Fitzwilliam, but I’ve always thought it suited me rather well.”  
> Bridget laughed. “It’s not that,” she soothed. “It’s more that, well, it’s you.”  
> “Thank you for stating the obvious,” I replied, rolling my eyes.  
> “No, Mark, I just meant… it’s you. It’s who you are. It’s your identity, you know?”  
> “I must confess, I rather like the continuity of it.”  
> Bridget nodded. “I know. It’s just that, well, you’ve always said, if you have a son, how important it is to you that he have a chance to develop his own identity, and I thought perhaps giving him his own name—his own sense of individuality—could be a good place to start.”  
> I considered her words. “That’s a fair point,” I conceded.  
> “Good,” said Bridget. “Fitzwilliam it is then.” I winced.  
> “For Christ’s sake, Mark, I was joking!” laughed Bridget.  
> “It’s—not that,” I managed, trying to ignore the way my headache was now reaching tiny fingers of pain through my neck and shoulders.
>> 
>> When we arrived home, I carried Bridget’s things inside before dropping wearily onto the sofa and lowering my head into my hands. Through my closed eyelids, I dimly caught Bridget’s shadow bending over me as she rested a hand on my shoulder.  
> “Mark?”  
> “I’m fine,” I protested. “It’s only this damned headache, and I’m a bit tired.”  
> Bridget frowned. “You’ve been having trouble sleeping again, haven’t you?”  
> “Maybe.”  
> “Mark Darcy, you are absolutely impossible. There you are, lecturing me about getting plenty of rest and not tiring myself because I’m this helpless, delicate little mother, and you’re so overtired that I’m pretty sure if you tried to stand up right now, you’d probably pass out.” With neither the energy to argue the point nor admit that she was in all probability correct, I sat perfectly still, trying to summon enough strength to fight the dense fog gathering at the edges of my brain. Bridget released a half-frustrated, half-affectionate sigh and reached for me, gently and methodically working at the knots of tension in my shoulders. At her touch, every tightly twisted muscle in my body began to unravel, and I allowed myself to slide into the warm cocoon of her embrace as she wrapped her arms around me. I wanted to tell her I loved her; how much I’d missed her these last few weeks; how glad I was to have her home with me again, but I just managed to catch hold of her hand and link my fingers through hers before my exhaustion overtook me.  
> The next thing I became conscious of was discovering myself on the sofa this morning, comfortably ensconced in a nest of blankets. I frowned at the light filtering through the curtains.  
> “Bridget?” I called, sitting up and scrubbing a hand over my face.  
> “Ah, you’re awake,” she said, entering the room with a steaming cup of coffee which she handed to me with a smile. “I wondered when you’d rejoin the living; I was actually starting to worry.”  
> “What time is it?”  
> “Nearly 9,” she answered, taking a seat beside me on the sofa. “I’d ask if you slept well, but taking into consideration the fact that I couldn’t even wake you long enough to get you to bed properly, the answer is obvious.”  
> I took a sip of coffee. “I don’t think I realized how overtired I was. My head still feels a bit fuzzy.”  
> “Maybe you should just relax today,” said Bridget. “And maybe stay home tonight.” I suddenly remembered the wrap party I was to have attended tonight with Bridget for a recently-completed project. Over the years, I’ve dutifully played the role of the supportive spouse at Bridget’s work functions, considering it sufficient repayment for all of the law council dinners she regularly endures on my behalf, though it seems like a somewhat unfair tradeoff when I generally find the evening mildly entertaining. In a throng of television personalities with egos far too large for the room they inhabit, I usually have little to do but watch from the sidelines as the drama unfolds, punctuated with Bridget’s running commentary. It makes rather a refreshing change from discussing Tory politics and whatever current international crisis happens to be dominating my work.  
> “Darling, would you be terribly offended if I said I didn’t feel quite equal to it?”  
> Bridget frowned at my admission, knowing that, as a general rule, my scrupulous attention to decorum demands that nothing short of death itself prevent me from keeping a social engagement. “If you really don’t feel well, maybe I ought to stay home.”  
> “Don’t be silly,” I protested. “I’m just tired. I wouldn’t be the most charming date for the evening. You ought to go. It’s important that you go.”  
> “Well,” Bridget rested her chin in her hands, thinking. “I suppose I should, but I don’t like to leave you. Maybe I’ll just pop in, make an appearance, and come straight back. Besides,” she added, “I haven’t got one decent outfit.”  
> “Bridget,” I began, “I’m sure--”  
> “Don’t try to make me feel better,” she said. “Honestly, what’s the point of making maternity eveningwear anyway? I might just as well borrow an embroidered circus tent.”  
> “Bridget.” Gently I reached to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Listen to me. You’re going to go to that party tonight, and you’re going to look absolutely breathtaking, and you’re going to have a lovely time, and you’re not going to worry about me.”  
> “But Mark--”  
> “Sh. I insist.”  
> “Well,” Bridget sighed. “I suppose you’re right and I really should go.” She leaned in and pressed her lips to my forehead. “But if you change your mind, I’m happy to stay with you.”
>> 
>> I’ve spent the entire day being uncharacteristically lazy, alternately reading and sleeping; woke a few minutes ago to a hushed, empty house and a hastily scrawled note from Bridget on my pillow.  
> ‘Gone to the party with Talitha. Didn’t want to wake you. Be back soon. Love you.’  
> At least she’s got Talitha to keep her company. And Daniel, of course. Bloody Hell, why think of Daniel now? Ordinarily, I’d simply brush the thought away, not allowing it to linger long enough to sting. Now, for some inexplicable reason, the thought of Daniel seems to have lodged itself uncomfortably inside me—a hard knot of ice in the pit of my stomach. Hmm, really, I feel surprisingly human after sleeping for the better part of the day; perhaps I’ll just surprise Bridget and look in on the party after all.
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> 12.00 AM
>> 
>>   
> My entire universe seems to have spun completely off its axis. I don’t expect to get any more sleep tonight, so I might as well try to sift through the mess of thoughts congealing in my brain.  
> Having made good on my decision to meet Bridget at the party, I immediately endeavored to seek her out on my arrival. The mild, spring air had coaxed guests onto the venue’s terrace, and no sooner had I begun to scan the crowd in search of Bridget than Talitha breezed over, drink in hand.  
> “Mark!” she exclaimed, leaning in to peck me on each cheek. “Darling, we thought we wouldn’t see you. Bridget said you were feeling poorly.”  
> “I was beginning to get restless. I thought I might just as well come,” I said, my eyes still sweeping my surroundings.  
> Following my gaze, Talitha gestured with her martini glass. “She’s sitting over there, and looking absolutely fabulous too,” she added, correctly interpreting my smile as my eyes came to rest on Bridget. She wore a tastefully simple, loosely fitting dark blue dress that both flattered and accommodated the contours of her figure; she had swept her hair back from her face with a silver comb, and even without the aid of a light dusting of make-up, her skin glowed, and her eyes held a playful, teasing sparkle. So completely had she arrested my attention that I hardly heard Talitha’s next words. “It looks like you’ve come just in time to protect your assets.”  
> “I’m sorry?” Tearing my gaze away from Bridget, I observed Talitha gesturing again in her direction, and I noticed, for the first time, that the individual on whom Bridget was looking with a familiar mix of amusement and tenderness was none other than…  
> “Cleaver,” I said quietly, my hand reflexively clenching at my side.  
> Talitha arched a perfectly penciled brow as she looked at me. “You can hardly be surprised,” she said, tapping one of her manicured nails against the edge of her glass. “You knew Daniel would be here, surely?”  
> “I just can’t seem to accustom myself to seeing them together,” I murmured, frowning as Daniel leaned in to whisper something in Bridget’s ear that she apparently found wildly entertaining given the burst of laughter that followed. As Daniel leaned back in his seat, I had a clear view of his face, and the sight of that lazy, roguish grin—an expression I had never managed to perfect—took me back to boyhood days of rugby and roughhousing; long, summer days and nights filled with harebrained schemes and stories of our—or rather Daniel’s—various female conquests. As much as I had frowned on his exploits, I had envied the ease with which he always seemed to carry himself.  
> “It’s all a matter of confidence, Darce,” he used to tell me.  
> “Mark?” Talitha laid a hand on my arm, tugging me back to the present moment.  
> “Forgive me,” I murmured, my eyes still locked on Daniel.  
> “Mark, someone has to be the one to tell you this, and it might as well be me, because Bridget certainly won’t.” She paused to light a cigarette, took a long drag, then continued. “This business with you and Daniel—it’s hurting Bridget. Anyone can see that, and you of all people have to realize it.”  
> “I know,” I sighed. “The trouble is, I haven’t a bloody clue what to do about it.”  
> “Look, Mark, we all know Daniel, you especially, since you knew him longest.”  
> “I thought I did,” I said bitterly.  
> “I’m not saying I approve of some of the things he’s done—sleeping with that horrible stick insect while he was with Bridget, for one, and, well, breaking up your first marriage. Daniel can be a complete bastard sometimes when he puts his mind to it—except, well, he never does put his mind to it, really; I suppose that’s his problem.”  
> “It isn’t that, Talitha; at least, I can’t exactly accuse him of destroying my marriage when there wasn’t much to destroy in the first place. I admit that.”  
> “If you ask me, he did you a favor,” said Talitha, gesturing with her cigarette in Bridget’s direction. “Daniel’s fuckwittage was your gain, really.” I knew this, of course; while I certainly wish that the life path that led me to Bridget hadn’t been fraught with so much pain, I’ve come over time to appreciate how fortunate I have been.  
> “You’re right, of course,” I said to Talitha. “And I would be unfair if I held Daniel solely responsible for what happened.”  
> “He’s more culpable in your eyes because you loved him more,” Talitha replied bluntly. “Honestly, Mark, why can’t the two of you just settle this, once and for all? Call him a bastard, throw a few punches, and get on with it. Isn’t that how you boys learn to survive at Eton?”  
> “I’ve already tried that,” I said. “It never works, and in any case--” I paused, turning to gain a clearer view of the sudden movement I had caught in the corner of my eye. “Excuse me, Talitha,” I said abruptly. “It appears I should take your advice and—protect my assets.” As I had stood engrossed in conversation with Talitha, I distinctly observed Daniel leaning forward again, playfully, and wholly inappropriately brushing a hand across Bridget’s breast. As I approached, Bridget laughed and swatted his hand away.  
> “Jones,” Daniel drawled. “I can’t help it. You look ravishingly pregnant. I’m sure Darcy would understand.”  
> “Are you so sure about that, Cleaver?” I said, stepping into view.  
> With a start, Bridget whirled round to face me. “Mark! What are you doing here?”  
> “Well well,” added Daniel, flashing that familiar, self-confident smirk in my direction. “If it isn’t Mark Darcy, brought to the scene by your sense of gentlemanly honor, no doubt, but everything’s under control here. I’m taking excellent care of your wife.”  
> I glared at him. “Taking excellent advantage of an opportunity, more like.” Before he could respond, I rounded on Bridget. “I expected better of you, Bridget. Haven’t you any sense? Can’t you see how this looks?” The instant I spoke, I realized my mistake, but in my indignation at Daniel and my concern for her, I abandoned my usual sense of decorum. Bridget’s eyes flashed, but before she could speak, Daniel rested a hand on her shoulder.  
> “Now, hold on, Darce. I’m to blame here, if anyone is.”  
> Blood boiling, I spun to face him again. “Who the Hell do you think you are, Cleaver?” I demanded. “Have you lost what little decency you possessed?”  
> Daniel cocked a brow. “I? You’re a strange one talking about decency, Darcy, coming in here and making a scene.”  
> “Let me make myself quite clear,” I said, fixing him with a threatening stare as I lowered my voice. “If you ever as much as lay a finger on my wife again, you’ll regret it for the rest of your days.”  
> Daniel smirked. “Well, that’s a proverbial slap with a white glove if I ever heard one.”  
> “Stop it! Both of you!” Bridget suddenly rose from her seat and moved to place herself between us, standing rather too quickly in her haste I realized as she swayed and nearly lost her balance. Instinctively Daniel and I stepped forward in unison, our hands brushing as we both reached to steady her, and for an instant our eyes met over the top of her head. At that moment, Talitha appeared, glaring at the both of us and wrapping an arm around Bridget’s shoulders. “Well, I hope you’re both pleased with yourselves,” she said; then to Bridget, “come on, honey. Let’s leave them to it.” I watched her usher Bridget inside, my stomach twisting into knots of guilt over my outburst. Only when Daniel spoke beside me did I recall his presence.  
> “Mark, listen, I--”  
> “I don’t want your apologies,” I snapped.  
> “Christ, Darcy, what do I have to do?” He studied me for several moments, a thoughtful, almost wistful expression in his eyes that tugged at my heart despite my bravest attempt to resist it. My throat tightened as I tried to speak. “Well,” said Daniel with a shrug, “you certainly know how to hold a grudge, Darcy, if any man does.” He gave another shrug and turned to leave. “I’m no expert on marital communication,” he said, “but if I were you, I’d be going after Bridget right about now.” I scowled as I watched him stride away before deciding to do as he suggested. Inside, I found Bridget standing in a corner with Talitha, who still had an arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. I noted with some relief that her color had returned, though her mouth remained set in a grim line that didn’t bode well for my attempt to diffuse the tension.  
> “Bridget,” I murmured as I drew near, “are you all right?”  
> She glared daggers at me. “Do you even need to ask?”  
> “No, I suppose not,” I admitted.  
> “Mark, I wish you’d—God, I can’t do this now. Can we just go home?” I nodded. As we turned to leave, Talitha gave Bridget’s shoulders a brief squeeze before allowing her gaze to rest on me. ‘Fix this,’ her look said.
>> 
>> Bridget and I drove home in a frosty silence that I didn’t dare attempt to break until we had entered the house, but the moment I opened my lips, she rounded on me, her eyes blazing.  
> “Mark, how could you?” she demanded. “What the fuck were you thinking?”  
> “Bridget, I--”  
> “Don’t ‘Bridget’ me!” she shouted. “You, Mr Perfect Pants, striding in and making a complete fool of yourself, not to mention humiliating me in front of my colleagues! What did you honestly think was going to happen? You know Daniel; everyone knows Daniel. He was just—being bloody Daniel!”  
> “Well,” I replied with equal vehemence, “excuse me for thinking you’d appreciate my concern for you!”  
> “Your concern? Did it ever occur to you, just once, that I can look after myself? I’m not a helpless doll!”  
> “I never said you were, Bridget, and in any case, why are you so quick to condone Daniel’s behavior?”  
> Bridget sighed heavily. “I’m not condoning anything. I’m just not reading into his antics as much as you are. It’s not as if he was shagging me over the dessert table!” I winced. “For fuck’s sake, Mark, I was joking! Honestly, you’re my husband, and I love you, but you can be a complete idiot sometimes!” Without another word, she spun on her heel and left the room. I mounted the stairs with the intention of following her, wondering how best to make amends, but as I reached the top step, I heard the shower running in the bathroom. Closing my eyes as I dropped onto the bed, I replayed the confrontation with Daniel in my mind, trying to envision it as it might have looked from Bridget’s point of view. When I saw the pair of them together tonight, I allowed an overprotective and, I admit, jealous instinct to overtake my better judgement. The result not only embarrassed Bridget in front of her colleagues, but created, if possible, even greater friction between Daniel and me. How can I claim to respect—if not understand—Bridget’s ability to maintain a friendship with Daniel, and yet behave in a manner that absolutely contradicts that claim?  
> Eventually succumbing to the lingering fatigue of the last few days, I must, I suppose, have worried myself to sleep, for when I reopened my eyes a few minutes ago, I found myself tucked neatly beneath the sheets (Bridget’s doing, undoubtedly). She lay on her side with her back to me. Gently, uncertain whether or not she was still awake, I rested a hand on her shoulder.  
> “Bridget?” I felt her stir ever so slightly in response. “Bridget, about tonight… I—I behaved badly. I apologize. I never meant to upset you.”  
> She turned to face me. “I know that,” she said.  
> “And… you’re right,” I continued. “About Daniel. I do miss him, I think.”  
> “I know that too.”  
> “I think I’ve only just begun to come to that realization.”  
> Bridget leaned in to kiss me. “Because you’re an idiot. Now go back to sleep.”  
> I never imagined I’d see the day when I’d give serious consideration to reconciling my differences with Daniel Cleaver. Now, of course, there remains the question: what the bloody Hell am I going to do about it?   
> 


	8. eggsbenni221

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters+epilogue  
Rating: T  
Chapter Word Count: 3426  
Summary: see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)  


> I wrote a letter in my mind, but the words were so unkind, about a man I can’t remember.  
> I don’t recall the reasons why, I must have meant them at the time, is this the sound of sweet surrender?  
> \- Robbie Williams, “Shame"

 

Friday 26 May  
10.00 PM

  
Once again, I’ve been a shamefully neglectful chronicler of the unfolding events of pending parenthood, for no other reason than that the cogs and gears of life have been constantly churning. Baby continues to grow steadily and healthily if the increasingly vigorous movement is any indication. Bridget continues to cope as well as she can despite the fatigue and the roller-coaster of hormone fluctuations. I feel as if I’ve said this before, but thank Heaven for Magda. If I have to endure one more obsessive analysis of varicose veins, stretch-marks, and the general litany of bodily distortions that Bridget is convinced will scar her for life, I might lose what remaining sanity I’ve managed to cling to. Not that I blame her, naturally; I can’t begin to imagine (nor, I confess, have I any desire to imagine) what she must be feeling.  
I’ve done my best to offer every form of support I can think of ranging from Belgian chocolate to back massages, but I seem unable to do anything just at the moment. Cushions are too hard; blankets suffocate her; chocolate gives her heartburn. (This, I admit, is a serious problem, and I’m making a concerted effort to take into consideration that withdrawal, in addition to other pregnancy symptoms, is naturally lending to her irritability). The truth forces me to admit, however, that despite the vastness of my legal knowledge, I’ve encountered no cases involving husbands of expectant mothers claiming human rights violation. This must, under some law, constitute torture.

 

Sunday 4 June  
10.30 PM

  
Exhausted and anxious. Bridget feeling poorly. She has spent almost the entire day in bed with terrible headache and lower back pain and seems unable to find any relief. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve run back and forth with tea, hot water bottles, heating pads, and everything else imaginable. Nothing has worked. Am utterly exhausted.  
Normally Bridget complains that my constant hovering smothers her; today she seems uncharacteristically clingy and anxious. I’ve tried, between tending her, to accomplish a bit of work, and in a desperate attempt to make her comfortable, I finally brought my paperwork upstairs and settled myself in bed beside her. This, not surprisingly, transpired to be a mistake; between the fact that baby’s movement keeps Bridget awake at night and my tendency, given her condition, to sleep with one eye open, neither of us has had the benefit of a restful night for several weeks. Bridget’s warm weight against my side as she snuggled beneath my arm gradually made me drowsy, and when I could no longer fight it, I shoved my papers aside and fell instantly to sleep. I’ve become so attuned to Bridget’s movements that the moment my body registered her absence beside me, I jerked back to consciousness. As I allowed my eyes to adjust to the setting sun filtering through the curtains, I observed the bathroom light on but heard no signs of movement.  
“Bridget? Are you all right?”  
“I—don’t know. I think--” The sound of violent retching that interrupted her words made my own stomach clench.  
“Don’t move!” I called back, rather stupidly I realize. (Why, oh why, am I such a useless idiot in crisis mode?) “I’ll be right there.” Bending over Bridget, murmuring “It’s okay… it’s okay,” over and over, I wondered if I were reassuring myself as much as I was reassuring her. (No one need wonder why I chose to become a barrister instead of a doctor). When finally the wave of illness passed, Bridget leaned heavily against me as I helped her back to bed. Having seen her settled, I fetched her a glass of water, needlessly rearranged the pillows, and perched on the side of the bed. I wasn’t doing something I thought as I looked at her; I needed to do something. Instinctively I reached for her hand, pressing it between both of mine, rubbing the edge of my thumbs across her wrist.  
“Mark,” she whispered, squeezing my hand, “Mark, I don’t feel right. Something doesn’t feel right.” Wanting to give myself time to steady my voice, I reached to brush the hair back from her forehead before replying.  
“You’ve been under a lot of stress these last few weeks,” I reminded her. “I’m sure you’re just feeling the effects of it.”  
“But it isn’t only that. This feels different somehow. It’s not just normal tiredness.”  
“You don’t know that,” I said gently, not wanting to dismiss her concern, while trying to silence the alarm bell beginning to sound in my own mind.  
Bridget shot me a glare of pure hormone-charged frustration. “I’m pretty sure, if there were something wrong, I’d be the first to know! It’s my body, isn’t it?”  
“You’re right,” I conceded, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “I’m sorry, love.”  
Bridget sighed. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just—not feeling like myself, and it probably doesn’t help that I’ve been lying here, imagining everything that could be wrong with me.”  
“Such as?” (I knew precisely what she was thinking, because so was I in that moment, but I couldn’t bear to voice the fear; the thought of speaking it out loud nearly made me choke).  
“Like—like—I don’t know! What if--” Bridget hesitated. “Mark, what if something happens and—and we lose the baby? We’ve tried so hard, and it’s taken so long and—I can’t bear to think about it!”  
“Then don’t,” I murmured, lying back down beside her and massaging the small of her back.  
“I can’t help it! I try not to, but the thoughts just keep coming. They’re like rabbits. You can’t have just one; they start breeding inside your head!”  
“Hmm, well, then we’ll just have to see what we can do to chase them away,” I said, reaching to caress her cheek.  
“Mark, be serious!”  
“Bridget, listen to me. Unnecessary anxiety is the last thing you need at the moment.”  
“I just have this horrible feeling of, well, I don’t know—foreboding?”  
I lay down beside her and pulled her head to my shoulder. “Darling, try not to worry. I know it’s hard, but try. You have an appointment with the doctor tomorrow, I think?” Bridget nodded. “Right then. That’s fortunate, because it would probably have been wise to schedule one anyway if you really feel that poorly. Right now you’re going to rest, and you’re going to try not to worry, and we’ll deal with tomorrow when tomorrow gets here, all right?”  
“But Mark, you can’t be sure of anything.”  
“That’s true,” I agreed. “but I do know that worrying excessively isn’t going to solve anything. This is why you have regular doctor visits.”  
She nodded. “Will you come with me tomorrow? I know you have to work, but…”  
I pressed a kiss to her temple. “You know I will, if it will make you feel better.” As I released her, Bridget clutched at my hand again.  
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m being stupid, but something—something just doesn’t feel quite right.” Brushing aside my own mounting anxiety, I drew her into my arms and cradled her against my chest until she fell back to sleep. Now, naturally, I seem to be staring down another sleepless night. I suppose I should consider this adequate practice for the near future.

 

Monday 5 June  
8.00 PM

  
I accompanied Bridget to her 28-week doctor’s visit today, and the events of yesterday have received an explanation. As it turns out, Bridget has been displaying symptoms of preeclampsia—extremely mild, thank Heaven, and hardly surprising under the circumstances. Anxiety, apparently, in addition to the other physical symptoms she complained of yesterday, is one of the warning signs. It would appear that the alarmist tendencies I’ve entertained for most of the pregnancy have not been without cause, but under the circumstances, it seems wise to suppress the urge to say ‘I told you so.’  
Now, of course, I find myself facing the task of keeping Bridget occupied and entertained, which seems at times a more monumental task than minding an infant. The doctor has instructed her to monitor her activity, and she’ll need to undergo regular stress tests for the next several weeks, but there seems no immediate need for concern as long as her condition remains stable. We’ve already had a row over the situation, and if nothing else thus far has surprised me, I should also have expected that maintaining sufficient calm to keep Bridget’s blood pressure under control would come at the expense of my own. Bridget has agreed to work primarily from home during the remainder of the pregnancy, and at first, I contemplated the feasibility of rearranging my schedule so that I could do the same when possible to be with her, but when Bridget insisted that this would drive her insane, I managed to exact a promise from her that if she agrees to follow the doctor’s orders absolutely and call me immediately if she needs anything, I’ll promise to endeavor to rein in my overprotective paternal instincts. Whether or not we can each stay true to this agreement, only time will tell.

 

Friday 9 June  
9.00 PM

  
Bridget doing better, it seems, though naturally frustrated by her nineteenth-century style confinement. She’s seemed in far better spirits today; Talitha has apparently taken it upon herself to pop over for an hour in the afternoons, which has undoubtedly provided a welcome distraction. I very often find one or other of the urban family at the house when I arrive home, generally Tom, who seems the only one of us able to convince Bridget that she does not, in fact, resemble a beached whale.

 

Monday 19 June  
10.30 PM

  
Bridget doing extremely well today, in high spirits and without quite as much evidence of cabin fever as I would have anticipated after a week at home. Apparently daily contact with the urban family is doing wonders for her frame of mind. I’ve glanced through my diary for the remainder of the week and think I can easily manage to clear my Friday afternoon. As long as Bridget feels equal to it, perhaps a day out will do her good.

 

Friday 23 June  
5.00 PM

  
The stars have officially conspired to align themselves in opposition to my desires. I went into chambers earlier than usual this morning with the intention of completing a day’s work by lunch time; I even managed to reschedule a meeting for earlier in the day, giving myself ample time to arrive home early and surprise Bridget. When I entered the house, Bridget’s laughter greeted me, and I smiled, expecting to find one of the urban family keeping her entertained. What I saw, however, left me feeling as though an iron hand had wrapped itself around my lungs. Sitting beside her, one arm draped over the back of the sofa, grinning at my astonishment was none other than Daniel Cleaver.  
The tightness in my chest eased slightly when Bridget turned her smile on me. “Mark! Hi! You’re home early. I didn’t expect you until this evening.” She half-raised herself, prepared to greet me with her customary embrace; she paused, however, when I made no move toward her, her eyes flickering in Daniel’s direction.  
“Forgive me if I’m interrupting anything,” I said coolly, my jealous instinct immediately quashing any possible contemplation of offering Daniel an olive branch. (I’ve not really considered it seriously; I blame that delirious idea on sleep deprivation). “I thought I might come home early and see if you felt up to going out for a bit, Bridget, but it seems my presence isn’t required.”  
“Don’t be such a grouch, Mark. Daniel just popped in to say hello and see how I’ve been getting on. Isn’t it a lovely surprise?”  
“Well, certainly a surprise,” I replied.  
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” said Daniel, looking, to my astonishment, slightly embarrassed.  
“I think it’s rather too late for that,” I said.  
“Mark!” Bridget snapped, her eyes blazing.  
Unrelenting, I folded my arms and glared back at her. “Bridget, I find it surprising that you’d expect me to react differently.”  
“Mark, you’re being rude,” she said, the barest hint of a maternal-sounding reprimand in her tone (pregnancy hormones obviously doing their job).  
“Come on, Darce,” said Daniel. “What do you want me to do?”  
“Just at this moment,” I responded, fixing my glare on him, “I’d like you to leave.”  
“Okay, that’s it!” Before either of us could prevent it, Bridget struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on the arm of the sofa. “This is ridiculous! I can’t take this anymore! You’re both grown men, and you’re behaving like children. I love both of you, and I know you love each other.”  
“That seems a gross exaggeration,” I observed.  
“Well, I don’t think so! You do love each other—maybe, um, very deep down,” Bridget amended. “Aren’t you tired of this? Because I know I am. Can’t you please just end it? Please?”  
“Bridget,” I said, reaching out a hand to steady her, “you shouldn’t be upsetting yourself, least of all over this.”  
“Well,” she shot back, “maybe you should have thought of that before you barged in here and started acting like a complete arse!”  
Daniel stood quickly, placing a hand on Bridget’s shoulder and gently forcing her back down onto the sofa. “Bridge, come on,” he soothed. “It’s not worth it. Just calm down, okay?”  
“Daniel, no. I’ve had enough of this. Maybe you’re okay with it, but I’m not.”  
“Sh, I know, but maybe this isn’t the best time. Mark’s right; you should be taking things easy.” He bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek, and the iron hand began to claw at my chest again. “I’ll come round another time, okay?” Reluctantly Bridget nodded. Before I could speak, Daniel turned to me. “I’ll see myself out,” he said by way of farewell. Without much consideration, I followed him from the room; at the front door, he turned round, one hand on the doorknob.  
“Mark, look, let’s just forget it. It’s pretty obvious I’ve outstayed my welcome, but can I just ask you one question?” He paused, his gaze piercing me with a searching look. “Why do you have to make this so difficult? I know I’ve fucked things up pretty badly in the past, and maybe I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but think about Bridget. Maybe you don’t think I deserve better, but she does. What’s the point of all of this? Holding onto a grudge, making yourself miserable, making Bridget miserable—for the life of me, I can’t work out what you’re trying to achieve.”  
“You can’t just wipe the slate clean,” I said. “It’s not that simple.”  
Daniel shrugged. “Bridget seems to think it is.” He considered me for another moment, then added, “I do love her, you know. I can’t love her the way you can; we both know that, but I do love her.” I felt my throat tighten and, not trusting myself to speak, I nodded. “Right,” Daniel said brusquely. “I’d better be off then. I’ll pop round again some time, if that’s all right. To see Bridget.”  
I took a deep breath, struggling to unstick the words lodging in the back of my throat. “She’d appreciate that,” I managed finally.  
“Right, well, tell her to expect me then.”  
“I’ll do that.” I stood at the door and watched Daniel depart, endeavoring to ignore the hollow feeling that had suddenly replaced the iron claw in my chest.  
When I returned to Bridget, I found her still seated where I’d left her, thumbing through a magazine.  
“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” she said, not bothering to raise her head as I perched tentatively on the edge of the sofa beside her.  
“I find it astonishing that my reaction surprises you,” I replied. When Bridget turned to face me, I saw the wrong I had done reflected in the angry tears shining in her eyes.  
“I’m so fucking tired of this, Mark. All these years you’ve said it didn’t matter, you’ve said you could deal with Daniel and me being friends again, but every time I mention him, every time we’re together in any situation, you get this look in your eyes—like I’m betraying you. It’s like you think I’m conspiring against you or something.”  
“Bridget,” I protested, “that’s not--”  
“That’s precisely what it is, Mark. It hurts me to see the way the two of you look at each other, like you’ve got this wall between you and you’re both too scared to climb over it, but I hate even more that you’ve never even thought about how I get stuck in the middle of it. I’m tired of that—tired of feeling like I’m this doll that you’re both playing tug-of-war with. Can’t you see that?”  
“You’re right,” I said. “It was just—I came in, and there he was, and I couldn’t help experiencing just a twinge of deja vu there for an instant.” Bridget continued to glare at me, her lips pressed together in stubborn silence.  
“Bridget, I’m sorry.”  
She sighed. “Mark, do you remember that speech I made about you being a complete idiot sometimes?” I nodded. “Do you want me to make it again?”  
“Frankly, I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”  
“Well,” she said, folding her arms and staring back at me, “can you tell me something? Why is this so hard for you?”  
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I honestly don’t know.”  
“I don’t see what’s so complicated about it,” said Bridget. “You know you’re being ridiculous. You know you miss Daniel. You’ve said it yourself.”  
“I did say that,” I agreed.  
“Then what exactly is the problem? Not to put too fine a point on it, Mark, you don’t have such a large circle of friends that you can afford to push one away.”  
“Well, that’s kind of you,” I grumbled.  
“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I just meant… you’re a bit, you know… introverted.”  
“Oh, well, as long as you didn’t mean it in a bad way,” I said.  
“Mark, you know what I mean. You’re more, well, intimate, if you prefer. You like to cultivate close relationships with a few people instead of having oodles of acquaintances.”  
“That’s true, I suppose,” I conceded.  
“And other than Jeremy, I think Daniel is the only person you’ve ever really allowed yourself to trust completely.”  
“Which is why,” I pointed out, “everything that happened between us hurt so deeply. It had nothing to do with my marriage, really, not in terms of the overly romantic sense of leaving me broken-hearted, at least.”  
“It wasn’t your wife who broke your heart,” murmured Bridget. “It was Daniel.”  
“I wouldn’t have put it so melodramatically,” I replied, “but in a word, yes. Whether or not he regrets it doesn’t matter, because I’ve never been able to understand how a friend—how my best friend—could do something so obviously without moral scruple.”  
“You make it sound more premeditated than it was, I think,” said Bridget. “I know Daniel; you know Daniel. He isn’t—I don’t know—premeditatedly evil.”  
“He doesn’t count consequences, Bridget.”  
“Maybe not, but he realizes when he’s made a mistake, and I don’t think he’s such a hopeless fuckwit that he can’t learn from his mistakes. I think that’s why the two of you need each other, actually.”  
I frowned. “I’m not sure I follow.”  
“I think you… balance each other out. I think for Daniel, you’ve always represented the kind of stability he never really had, and you envy the fact that it’s so easy for him not to take himself so seriously. You can give him structure, and he can teach you how to bend a bit.”  
“I hadn’t ever really considered it in that light,” I admitted. “but how do you cross a bridge you burned ages ago?”  
Bridget smiled. “You rebuild it.”  
Such a simple answer to such a perplexing problem, but this has never failed to baffle me when it comes to Bridget—how she can manage to make things so ridiculously complicated for herself and so amazingly simple for me. 


	9. eggsbenni221

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the "Fugitive from another century" comment is inspired by a comment Colin Firth made about Mark Darcy in an old NPR interview; I'll hopefully be able to dig up the link and include it in the notes, but it was such a beautiful way to encapsulate Mark's character in a single nugget that I couldn't resist drawing on it, because that observation has always deeply informed the way I write Mark's voice.

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters+epilogue  
Rating: T  
Chapter Word Count: 4602  
Summary: see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)  


Author's Note: the "Fugitive from another century" comment is inspired by a comment Colin Firth made about Mark Darcy in an old NPR interview; I'll hopefully be able to dig up the link and include it in the notes, but it was such a beautiful way to encapsulate Mark's character in a single nugget that I couldn't resist drawing on it, because that observation has always deeply informed the way I write Mark's voice.  


> Friendship isn’t about whom you’ve known the longest. It’s about who came and never left your side.  
> \- Anonymous

 

Saturday 8 July  
11.00 AM

  
Quiet morning. Bridget has gone off with Magda, Jude, and Sharon for the day to perform various and mysterious feminine bonding rituals in what will very likely be one of her last few maternity-free afternoons. I’ve promised to make myself useful in her absence, particularly given that the nursery remains a work in progress. We eventually got round to finishing the painting. I still see blue whenever I close my eyes. We’ve purchased all of the furniture, but naturally, it all requires assembly, because it seems only fair that manual labor be a father’s rite of passage into child-rearing. Bridget swears she would much rather expel a human being from her uterus than assemble furniture. I have a nagging suspicion she might alter her tune once actual labor commences, but she might be—and probably is made of sterner stuff than I give her credit for. Right. Really getting down to work.  
I’ve decided to tackle crib construction, as the most utilitarian task needing completion. I rather doubt if Baby will raise any objection to our choice of curtains or wall-paper provided he has a place to rest his head. How difficult can it be?

 

1.00 PM

  
I have apparently underestimated the complexity of crib assembly. Perhaps I ought to have taken a degree in structural engineering instead of choosing to study the law. I little anticipated the valuable life skills such training might have provided. I haven’t a bloody clue where to begin. Right. Going to ring Jeremy.

 

8.00 PM

  
Jeremey’s support consisted of an offer to buy me a drink. Hmm, using alcohol to avoid productivity. Bridget continues to influence my personality in subtle yet alarming ways. We discussed work, politics, and football before Jeremy set down his drink and leaned forward, fixing me with an intense stare.  
“So, Mark, not much longer till the big day. How are you doing?”  
I shrugged. “Right now, I’m just grateful that Bridget is healthy. We don’t talk about it, but she’s always been at a bit more of a risk, because of her age, and the additional stress of dealing with her father’s illness has naturally been a concern, but thank heaven, all things considered, she’s well.”  
Jeremy smiled. “That didn’t answer my question, Mark. I asked about you, not Bridget.”  
“Point taken,” I agreed. “I suppose I haven’t given much thought to how I’m feeling.”  
“No,” said Jeremy. “I don’t suppose you have, which is why I’m asking you now.”  
“Of course I’m nervous,” I confessed. “More so as the date approaches, but isn’t that to be expected? What am I feeling—what could I possibly be feeling—that’s markedly different from what other expectant parents feel? Except, well…”  
“Go on,” Jeremy urged.  
“I’ve always made light of all of that ticking biological clock nonsense; times have changed, and as much as I worry about Bridget, I know that she’s receiving the best care possible.”  
“But?” prompted Jeremy.  
“But… well, I can’t help thinking about the future sometimes. Speaking plainly, I’m 50 years-old, Jeremy, or nearly, anyway. I can’t pretend I have the energy I did 10 years ago. I don’t mean to say I regret anything—of course I don’t, but time isn’t the luxury it once was.”  
“It never really is,” said Jeremy. “We only trick ourselves into thinking that when we’re young, and I think you’ll be surprised how much having a family will rejuvenate you. Energy isn’t infinite, of course, but you’ll find stores of it when you least expect to—and when you most need it.”  
“I suppose that’s true,” I agreed.  
“Not to dwell on the subject, but Magda wanted me to ask you--” The ringing of my mobile abruptly punctuated Jeremy’s request.  
Confirming that it was Bridget as I glanced at the display, I smiled and accepted the call. “Hello, darling. How is everything? Are you ladies enjoying your afternoon?”  
“Yes, it’s been lovely. How are things there? Have you made any progress?”  
“I—suppose you could say that.”  
“Mark?”  
“I’ve just popped out to meet Jeremy for a drink. Don’t worry, darling. I’ve got everything under control. I promise.”  
“Mark, you’re lying.”  
“All right. Fine, but Bridget, don’t you think it’s rather hypocritical of you to criticize my procrastination?”  
“Mark,” Bridget snapped, “I don’t ask much, but I’m asking you for this. We really need to finish getting the nursery ready.”  
“And we will.”  
“Well, unless you’re going to wave a magic wand about, I don’t think sitting in a pub with Jeremy is going to knock together a crib!”  
I heard a brief scuffle in the background before: “Mark, it’s Magda. Listen, don’t pay any attention to her.”  
“Easier said than done,” I grumbled, though I knew, of course, that Bridget’s hormones were interfering with her brain-to-mouth filter, which filters out very little even at the best of times.  
“Mark, we won’t keep you, but has Jeremy mentioned anything to you about your birthday?”  
I arched a brow in Jeremy’s direction before responding. “No, but I think he might have been working up to it when Bridget called. Listen, Magda, I don’t--”  
“Right, well, why don’t you and Bridget come round for dinner. I know everything’s a bit crazed at the moment, but it won’t be a big to-do.”  
“Magda, you really needn’t--”  
“Bridget will hammer out the details with you at home. We’ve got to run now.”  
“You might have warned me I was about to be ambushed,” I muttered to Jeremy as I ended the call.  
He shrugged. “I hadn’t time myself. I don’t know why Magda even bothered to ask me to talk to you if she didn’t trust me to deliver the message. I think it’s a good idea though. It’ll give you a bit of a break from things.”  
“I don’t want a fuss, Jeremy.”  
“And since when is dinner at our house a fuss? Granted, I know the children turn it into something of a circus, but you’ll have to get used to that. Besides, Constance has been begging to see you and Bridget.”  
I smiled. “Well, let’s leave it open for now, shall we? I let Bridget manage the social diary, in any case. Half the time I find myself dragged to functions I never remember committing to in the first place, so it makes little difference one way or the other.”  
Jeremy clinked his glass against mine. “Here’s to the women in our life.”

 

Several hours and several drinks later, I found myself staring once again at the jumble of mismatched pieces of wood that will ostensibly offer a safe resting place for my child. Absorbed in the task of endeavoring to fuse the pieces together with the power of my mind, I resurfaced only when I heard Bridget climbing the stairs.  
“Mark?”  
“In here.”  
Bridget appeared in the doorway, looking tired but contented. “Mark, what are you doing?”  
“Performing a cost-benefit analysis of hiring a carpenter,” I replied.  
“Poor Mark. Have you been at this all afternoon?” she asked, crossing the room to wrap her arms around me.  
“What does it look like?” I grumbled.  
“It looks like you’re trying to use thought vibes to put the crib together.”  
“That about sums up the level of my craftsmanship, yes.”  
“I’m sorry I went a bit mad about it earlier. I just feel so—unprepared, and that’s probably not very reassuring,” she said, tracing a circle on the swell of her belly. Spotting the only usable piece of furniture in the room—the antique, double rocker that had been in my family for generations and which I had managed to retrieve from the attic—I reached for Bridget’s hand and pointed to the corner.  
“Well,” I murmured, “I do in fact have a surprise for you. I haven’t been entirely unproductive, you see.”  
“Oh!” Smiling, Bridget stepped closer and trailed her fingers over the mahogany wood. “I think I remember your mother telling me about this.”  
“I brought it back with me while you were staying with your parents, and I’ve been keeping it as a surprise.”  
“It’s lovely, Mark.”  
“It could do with repainting,” I observed, examining several chips in the arm before testing its steadiness with a hand. “but it’s sturdy, and it’s nursed generations of Darcys.”  
“It’s perfect,” whispered Bridget, pulling me down beside her onto the chair and snuggling against me. “Have you thought any more about Magda’s suggestion for your birthday dinner?”  
“I don’t know. I don’t want a fuss made.”  
“Mark, honestly.” Bridget rolled her eyes. “You’re going to turn 50 whether you acknowledge it or not.”  
I sighed. “It isn’t that, Bridget; at least, not all of it.”  
“What then? And if you’re going to tell me it’s got something to do with you not wanting me to tire myself, the only thing that’s tiring me is hearing that.”  
“Darling,” I said, taking both of her hands in mine, “you’ve given me the most precious gift I could ever have asked for. You’re healthy, the baby’s healthy, and I couldn’t want anything more.”  
“We’ve still got to celebrate,” she protested.  
I smiled and bent to kiss her cheek. “Let’s see, shall we?”

 

Saturday 5 August  
11.45 PM

  
Happy Birthday, indeed. I ought to have suspected that today would be packaged with far more than I had bargained for. Incredibly, Bridget had no hand in the surprise (which, confidentially speaking, might have rather a lot to do with the fact that I was actually surprised). With the exception of a leisurely lunch with Bridget and dinner with my parents in the evening, we didn’t plan anything particularly festive for today. I woke rather unceremoniously to Bridget flinging open the curtains and chucking a pillow at my head.  
“Happy Birthday, old man!”  
“How flattering. Thank you,” I mumbled, endeavoring to burrow deeper under the covers.  
“I think not,” she declared, yanking the duvet off of me. With a groan, I rolled to my side and glanced at the clock.  
“7.00? On a Saturday? According to your time table, this is pre-dawn.”  
“Well, it’s a special occasion,” she said, sliding her arms around me and proceeding to plant a trail of feathery kisses along my neck. While my brain remained draped in fog, other—portions of my anatomy, to put it delicately, responded more willingly to the wake-up call. Unfortunately, this seemed more of a curse than a gift as physical intimacy hasn’t been an especially comfortable activity for Bridget lately.  
“Well, what have we here?” whispered Bridget, slipping a hand beneath the sheets. “I thought it’s the birthday boy’s job to unwrap all the presents, but I’m happy to oblige, if it’s your wish.”  
“Bridget, I’m not sure—that is, not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, but are you sure you’re quite equal to it?”  
“Really, Mark?” Bridget rolled her eyes. “Even on your birthday you’re putting me first? It’s been ages. You must be gagging for it.”  
I smiled. “The sacrifices we make for our children.”  
“We’ll be doing our fair share of that soon enough. Let’s live in the moment.” I hesitated. “If you don’t get on with shagging me this instant, Mark Darcy, we’re not having sex again until you’re 100.”  
“You must tell me if it’s too much.”  
“Fine,” Bridget conceded. “but only because I always obey my elders.”  
“I’m afraid,” I said, bending to kiss her, “that I’m going to have to punish you for that, young lady.”  
“You don’t scare me, old man.” A long, pleasant interlude ensued, after which we lay in a delicious, limb-entangled state of what Bridget would likely describe as shag-drunkenness. Eventually Bridget stirred beneath my arm and reached over to the bedside table.  
“I, um, did get you an actual present,” she said, tossing a wrapped package into my lap that, upon opening, contained a gold dress watch. “And before you make a sarcastic comment about it symbolizing the finite nature of life and your inexorable march toward death, have a look at this.”  
Bridget turned the watch over to reveal its underside, on which were etched in delicate script the date and the word ‘Dad.’ “I wanted it to be a memento of sorts,” she explained. “Do you like it?”  
I stared down at the timepiece, feeling its weight, realizing the future it foretold; then enfolded Bridget in my arms and kissed her. “Thank you, my darling.”  
We spent a gloriously lazy morning snuggled in bed before eventually disentangling ourselves from each other and driving to Kensington Gardens for a picnic lunch. We found a comfortable seat within view of the Diana Memorial Playground, and I smiled as I watched a group of boys clambering around the large, wood-carved pirate ship in the center of the area. Eventually I found my gaze drawn to a father and son a few feet away from where we sat. The boy, it appeared, had inflicted a minor injury on himself while running round with his friends—a scraped knee or a bruised elbow. He seemed, judging from his gestures in the direction of the other boys, to be in some distress over the fact that he was the smallest of the group and sometimes struggled to keep up with their vigorous play. Not wanting to appear indiscreet, but unable to withdraw my gaze, I watched him swiping angrily at the offending, “unmanly” tears that spilled over his cheeks, and a lump rose unbidden to my throat as his father scooped him up and held him in a tight hug. He stood that way for several minutes before whispering something into his son’s ear, kissing his brow, and setting him back on his feet. I felt a sudden kinship with the boy as I recalled my own youth—the times, during my years at school, that I had longed for such parental affection and my failed attempts, then and now, to insist that the lack of it had never bothered me. When I felt Bridget slip her hand into mine, I turned to meet her eyes.  
“Bridget,” I said, reaching out to trace my fingers over the swell of her belly, “I’ve been thinking. The baby—if it’s a boy, maybe he—that is, I don’t know if we should send him to boarding school after all.”  
She smiled and arched a brow in response. “What brought this on?”  
I shrugged. “I’ve just been giving it some thought.”  
“Really, Mark? We’ve been at loggerheads over this issue since before I even got pregnant, and now, all of a sudden, you’ve had this magical, Road to Damascus epiphany? I don’t think so.”  
“Well, perhaps not,” I admitted. “but I’ve been giving it a great deal of thought recently, and I’ve begun to realize something.”  
“Which is?” Bridget prompted.  
“Just that, well… I think you’re right. Perhaps it’s time we—broke with Darcy tradition.”  
Bridget folded her arms and endeavored to manufacture a stone-faced expression. “But what about structure, Mark? What about discipline?”  
“I’m not dismissing the importance of any of that. Don’t misunderstand me.”  
“I’m relieved to hear it,” she said. “You were starting to worry me.”  
“All I meant,” I continued, “is that there’s more to becoming a man. I want—I need my children to know tenderness.”  
“You didn’t turn out too badly yourself,” murmured Bridget, giving my hand a squeeze. “You’re hard-working and loyal, and probably have the most unswerving moral compass of any man I’ve ever met. You value tradition, and you can be endearingly chivalrous when you put your mind to it. Sometimes I think you’re a kind of fugitive from a previous century, or something.”  
“Well, if I wasn’t feeling my age before, I certainly am now,” I said.  
“I didn’t mean it that way!” Bridget protested. “You’re the perfect blend of tradition and forward-thinking, and you know what? I think you’re far more tender-hearted than you give yourself credit for being.” Smiling, I cradled her face in my hands and lost myself in the flecks of sunlight dancing in her eyes.  
“Mark, what…”  
“I’m just proving your point,” I whispered, leaning in to kiss her.

We returned to the house with plenty of time to spare before dressing for dinner with my parents. As Bridget headed toward the kitchen to stow the picnic things, she paused and frowned.  
“Something the matter?” I asked, relieving her of the picnic blanket and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.  
“No, but did you hear something? It came from the kitchen.” Perplexed, I moved toward the kitchen and what sounded like muffled giggles and scuffling at the same moment that I found myself seized round the waist and greeted with a squeal of “Uncle Mark!”  
“Constance? What on earth--”  
“Happy Birthday, Uncle Mark!”  
Before I could inquire further about her sudden appearance, Magda partially solved the mystery, bustling into the room and shooting her daughter a stern look. “Constance, I thought I asked you to stay in the kitchen and help me. It was meant to be a surprise.”  
“I think you’ve managed that admirably,” I said, offering Constance a reassuring hug. “I’m delighted to see you, but what in the world are you doing here? I thought I told you not to make a fuss,” I added, turning to Bridget.  
“She’s just as surprised as you are,” said Magda.  
“I certainly am, but what a lovely surprise,” exclaimed Bridget, opening her arms to Constance.  
Grinning widely, Constance ran into her embrace. “Hi, Auntie Bridget!”  
“Hello, darling.”  
“How are you feeling?”  
“Oh, I’m all right.”  
“I can’t wait to see the baby!” Constance exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet.  
Bridget laughed. “Neither can I. I hope you plan to clear your diary for baby-sitting.”  
Emitting another squeal of delight, Constance hugged Bridget again; then turning to me, her expression suddenly serious, she said, “Mum said it’s very important that you take extra special care of Auntie Bridget right now. Are you?”  
I smiled. “I’ve not heard any complaints thus far.”  
Constance considered me for a moment; then nodded solemnly. “Good.”  
“This is a lovely surprise,” I said to Magda, “but you needn’t have troubled yourself.”  
“Nonsense.” Magda waved a dismissive hand. “We couldn’t let the day pass, and we didn’t think Bridget needed the stress of dealing with houseguests, so we decided to take matters into our own hands.”  
“We?” echoed Bridget.  
“You’ll see,” said Magda, a mischievous twinkle in her eye.  
“I think you’ll like it, Uncle Mark,” piped up Constance. “You too, Auntie Bridget. It’s for both of you, really.” Without further preamble, she scurried up the stairs, Bridget and I following curiously. We watched, puzzled, as she poked her head round the door to the nursery and whispered something I couldn’t discern before turning back with a broad smile.  
“Okay, you can go in now!” I slipped Bridget’s hand into mine as Constance flung open the door with a flourish, and I hardly had time to comprehend the sight that greeted me with a chorus of “Surprise! Happy Birthday!” Jeremy, Tom, Jude, and Sharon, as well as Bridget’s parents and mine, had crammed themselves into a fully furnished and decorated nursery.  
I blinked, frowned, studied my surroundings again, and finally managed to exclaim, “How on earth did you--”  
“Meticulous planning and an impeccable sense of style,” said Tom.  
“Bridget told us how impossible you were being about a gift,” said Sharon.  
“But we couldn’t let the occasion pass without some sort of recognition,” my mother chimed in. “No fuss indeed. Honestly, Mark, did you really think we were going to listen to that?”  
“Mother, I didn’t think--”  
“Precisely.”  
“It’s best just to let the women have their own way with this sort of thing, son,” said my father.  
“But you couldn’t have done all of this today,” I protested.  
“We didn’t,” said Magda. “It would have been impossible, with Bridget home all the time now, but since she had to go into work for a few meetings this week, we took it in turns to sneak in while she was out. Otherwise we’d probably never have got it finished.”  
“And we thought the baby might appreciate having a room he can sleep in before going off to Cambridge,” came another, unexpected voice. Daniel had suddenly appeared in the doorway, Magda and Jeremy’s boys in tow. “I seem to have missed the unveiling,” he said. “My apologies. We had a spot of bother in the back garden with an escape football.” The room fell deadly silent as our eyes met. “Surprise, Darce,” said Daniel, grinning reflexively despite the tension. “Probably an unwelcome one, but Happy Birthday all the same, mate.” I stood for several moments, a hard knot of too-long unspoken words lodging itself in my throat. Desperately I cast my eyes around the room again, taking in the curtains at the windows, the perfectly arranged furniture, the menagerie of stuffed animals piled beside the rocker, until I realized I was viewing it all through a mist of tears.  
“This is so—I never expected--” I stammered. “Thank you. All of you. You really didn’t need--”  
“Yes, they did, Mark,” laughed Bridget. “We’d never have got it done.”  
I smiled, slipping an arm around her. “Are you certain you had nothing to do with this?” I asked.  
“Are you mad? I wish I’d thought of it weeks ago!”

This birthday has turned out far better than I could have imagined, and I count myself supremely blessed. The evening proceeded predictably, with food, wine, and laughter flowing in equally copious amounts. More than once, I caught myself studying Daniel as he mingled with the others. As I stood silently observing the scene, I felt my mother draw near and slip her arm through mine.  
“I’m glad the day has turned out so nicely for you,” she said.  
“Thank you, Mother. I quite honestly didn’t expect any of this.”  
“Which makes it that much sweeter,” she said. “And I had no idea you’d patched things up with Daniel.”  
I frowned. “I wasn’t aware that we had.”  
My mother arched a brow. “Haven’t you?”  
“I wouldn’t say that, precisely,” I replied.  
“Well, you haven’t admitted it, anyway.”  
“He’s here for Bridget,” I insisted.  
My mother smiled and patted my cheek. “Think that, Mark, if it makes you feel better.” I watched Daniel cross the room to Bridget with a comically enormous slab of cake.  
“More cake, plumpcious?” Bridget laughed, attempting to wave away his offering, and he took advantage of her laughter to feed her a heaping fork-full.  
I tried and failed to dismiss the tug at my heart-strings as I observed their exchange. “I can’t deny that he’s been good to her,” I admitted. “Especially during these last few weeks. I know Bridget’s enjoyed his company, and I must confess, it’s been a comfort knowing she isn’t always alone.”  
“Then tell him that, Mark.”  
I sighed. “You’re right, Mother, of course. Bridget’s been saying much the same thing.”  
“Well, it’s high time you finally listen to her.” Watching Bridget mingling with our friends, her eyes sparkling with amusement, I suddenly recalled the first time I had come face to face with her in this house, at my parents’ ruby wedding party. I hadn’t any idea she had been invited until I turned round on the stairs on the way into dinner and saw her standing behind me. What I thought in that moment, what I felt, I can no longer remember, partially because the sweet, flowery fragrance emanating from her skin was creeping bewitchingly through my brain, partially because, moments later, Natasha had, with disastrous timing, stumbled over a candle and splashed hot wax over the hem of her gown. (I wondered after whether it hadn’t in fact been coincidental bad timing given her relentless and increasingly frantic endeavors to distract me from Bridget). Had Bridget’s presence at the party and all that followed never occurred, I wondered what my life now might look like. As if sensing my thoughts, Bridget suddenly turned her eyes toward me; our gazes locked, and we smiled.  
“You know, mother,” I said, “I’ve just realized something. I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for inviting Bridget to your ruby wedding.”  
She patted my hand. “You’ve made a good life for yourself, Mark, and you’ve made a good life for her; you thank me every time I see how much you cherish her. It does seem odd though,” she continued with a smile, “that the girl who could convince you that a terracotta oil-burner took in milk can’t convince you to bury the hatchet with your oldest friend.”  
I contemplated the scene before me; then nodded. “I’m not making any promises,” I said, “but you’ve just given me an idea. Thank you, Mother.” I bent to peck her cheek before striding across the room and slipping behind Bridget’s chair. Resting my hands on her shoulders, I cleared my throat.  
“If I could just have everyone’s attention, there’s something I’d like to say.”  
“Hang on,” bellowed Sharon. “If we’re toasting, I’m going to need a refill.”  
Tom refilled her wine glass and placed his own in her other hand. “For Bridget,” he explained. “She’s living vicariously.”  
“Right, well…” I cleared my throat a second time; Bridget reached up to lay her hand atop mine. “I can’t thank you all enough for everything you’ve done, not just today--”  
“Although that was quite enough,” Tom interrupted, frowning at a blister on his thumb. Jude swatted his arm.  
“I have Bridget to thank for so many things; for opening my heart to love; for the gift of our marriage; for the family we’ve created together.” Slowly I slid my hand down to brush my fingers across Bridget’s cheek. The tear I caught on the tip of my thumb made my throat tighten, and I took a deep, steadying breath before continuing. “All of you--” my eyes rested on each of our friends in turn, even lingering for an instant on Daniel— “have been an important part of that family, and I would be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that. You’ve all come together to make today such a memorable gift, reminding me of the gift of your friendship, which you’ve given and continue to give me. When I married Bridget, I married into a wonderfully supportive… if somewhat inebriated urban family, and I suppose I’ve never given much thought to the fact that I’ve always considered my role in the group primarily as an extension of Bridget, but looking around tonight, I realize how fully you’ve taken me into your lives—into your hearts—not just for Bridget’s sake, but, well…”  
“Because we love you, you bloody idiot!” Sharon shouted.  
I raised my glass in acknowledgement of her words. “Spoken with your usual eloquence, Sharon. Thank you.”  
“Shit, Mark, I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak since I met you,” she said, swiping at a tear in the corner of her eye.  
“And I think that’s the first time you’ve ever cried in front of me, Sharon,” I countered. “So we’re even.”  
“Anyway,” chimed in Tom, raising his glass as well, “here’s to us!”  
Here’s to us, indeed; I couldn’t have imagined a more wonderful birthday. Everyone’s dispersed, and Bridget lies asleep beside me as I write this. If she always looks as beautiful as she does in this moment, clearly I’ve never looked at her properly. 


	10. eggsbenni221

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters +epilogue  
Rating: T  
Chapter Word Count: 6904  
Summary: see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)  


> Close your eyes,  
> Have no fear,  
> The monster’s gone,  
> He’s on the run,  
> And your daddy’s here.  
> Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.
> 
> Before you go to sleep,  
> Say a little prayer,  
> Every day  
> In every way  
> It’s getting better and better,  
> Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.
> 
> Out on the ocean sailing away,  
> I can hardly wait  
> To see you come of age,  
> But I guess we’ll both just have to be patient,  
> ‘cause it’s a long way to go,  
> A hard road to hoe,  
> Yes it’s a long way to go, but in the meantime,
> 
> Before you cross the street,  
> take my hand.  
> Life is what happens to you  
> While you’re busy making other plans.  
> Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy.  
> \- John Lennon, “Beautiful Boy, Darling Boy”

 

Tuesday 8 August  
8.00 PM

  
Less than a month stands between me and the reality of fatherhood. I find myself replaying the moment when Bridget gave me the news, thinking it couldn’t be—unwilling to believe it would be until the day we have both been dreaming of for years came to pass. Now, with that day fast approaching, it seems ironically more unreal than it did in the first moments it began to take shape. I close my eyes and see that elusive, shimmering, soap bubble of hope, hovering so tantalizingly close. I fear as much as I desire to touch it, lest it burst in my hands.  
Bridget has managed to remain surprisingly calm; we have (at my insistence, obviously) discussed the procedure we plan to follow, which, to my astonishment, actually does not involve rushing to hospital at the first sign of labor. In my unfeminine ignorance about such matters, I assumed that the sooner Bridget is admitted, the safer and smoother the process will proceed. She explained, however, that as long as she remains relatively comfortable, she will progress through the early stages of labor much more smoothly without interference, whether medical or, apparently, my own. She fed me a confusing load of waffle about hormones and adrenalin rushes, and by the end of it, I felt as though I’d sat through (and failed) a crash course in obstetrics.  
At the very least, I endeavored to convince her that I should work from home during these next few weeks, to be on hand if the need should arise.  
“That won’t help at all,” she said. “And besides, you work in London, Mark. Not Thailand. When and if I need you, you can get to me.”  
“Bridget, do you honestly expect me to go about my normal day, as if I’m not expecting anything remotely out of the ordinary to happen, when every instinct I possess is shouting at me to be with you?”  
Bridget gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “Dear Mark,” she murmured, leaning in to peck my cheek.  
“Bridget, please don’t patronize me.”  
“I’m not. Look, sweetheart, I know you want to be with me; I know you want to help, and I love you for it. Really, but the thing is, it isn’t like the movies. There’ll be plenty of time. You won’t miss anything. I--”  
“Don’t promise,” I interrupted. “You can’t promise.”  
“No, I can’t, but it’s not an exact science, Mark. No one knows the precise timing of things, but for 99% of women, it’s not this mad dash to hospital like their uterus is on fire.”  
“I’d feel much better if I were here with you.”  
“And I’d feel much better if you’d let me decide when I need you.”  
“Just in case,” I protested.  
“It’s a birth canal, Mark, not a magician’s hat! You can’t just sit around staring at me as if I’m suddenly going to reach down and pull a white rabbit out of my vagina!” (I wasn’t suggesting that at all. Honestly).

 

Thursday 31 August  
9.15 AM

  
Bridget began to experience some moderate discomfort late last night. This can apparently begin hours, or even days (God help us) before actual labor commences. Why am I at work? This is madness! Knowing that baby’s ETA is as yet undetermined and that I will, in all probability, not be returning to chambers for at least the next week or two, Bridget ultimately made me see sense in coming to work so that I can leave things in relative order for however long I remain away. I endeavored to exact a promise from her to call the moment her condition changes, at which she rolled her eyes.  
“Mark, you’re just going to call every hour anyway.” (I am not that transparent, surely). No court today, thank Heaven, but finding it difficult to concentrate on anything. I am about to enter the world of fatherhood, and I feel as if I’m walking into the most important job interview of my life with absolutely no preparation.

 

10.00 AM

  
Nothing yet.

 

10.30 AM

  
No change. Contractions irregular; hate not being with Bridget. Am wild to be at home—to see, to hear, to be on the spot. (Hmm, where have I heard that before?)

 

11.00 AM

  
Out of my mind with anxiety. This is utterly unbearable. Damn patience. Going home.

 

11.15 AM

  
Fuck! Conference call. Bloody Mexican ambassador. Can’t the world please just stop rotating like mad for one moment while I prepare to witness my wife performing perhaps the most impressive feat of strength a woman is capable of? Is that too much to ask? God damn it! Ambassador on hold. Right.

 

12.15 PM

  
Dear God! It’s started!

 

3.00 PM

  
Utterly helpless. Nothing for me to do but try not to be sick.

 

5.00 PM

Right. Break in the action. I have a few minutes to endeavor to gather my thoughts and set down a more detailed account of the past several hours. The moment I ended that insufferably ill-timed conference call, I rang Bridget to check in.  
“Mark!” she gasped. “I think—I think it’s started! For real! Could you—fuck! Just get here!”  
“Right. Okay. Listen, just stay calm. Try not to panic. Are you all right?”  
“I’m fine, Mark! Bloody fantastic!”  
“Just relax,” I said reflexively. “Are you in pain?”  
“No, I’ve just got the weight of approximately half a stone pressing against the walls of my uterus! Mark, are you fucking insane?”  
My palms began to sweat as I paced the length of my office. “Right. Listen, I’m coming, all right? I’ll be there as soon as I can. It’s going to be all right. Just hang on.”  
“Actually, on second thought, maybe you should just—meet us--”  
“Us?” I paused as I snatched up my car keys and shuffled papers into a desk drawer without even glancing at their contents, certain that I’d misheard her—not unreasonable given that she seemed to be speaking in harsh, broken sentences between clenched teeth.  
“Daniel,” Bridget replied, apparently reduced to monosyllabic responses.  
I continued as if she hadn’t just spoken the name of the person I’d have been least likely to rely on in that moment. “Bridget, listen to me. Try to relax. Just breathe.”  
“That’s—just what I’m trying—fuck!”  
“Darce, listen.” Daniel’s voice suddenly came on the line, and I placed both of my hands on the edge of my desk to steady myself. “Why don’t I take Bridget, and you meet us there? It’ll be quicker, rather than having her wait.”  
“But why--” I began.  
“I just happened to pop in, to see if she needed anything, and lucky I did.”  
“I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but really, I hardly think--”  
“Look, Darce, you have two choices. I’m driving Bridget to hospital, or I’m staying till you get here, because I’m not leaving her alone right now. Not on your fucking life. Besides,” he added. “Bridget might be grateful for the backup. In case you pass out or something.” Given the fact that I was, by this point, gripping the desk so tightly for support that my knuckles were white, it seemed an imprudent moment to deny that his hypothesis wasn’t entirely beyond the realm of possibility.  
“Fine,” I snapped. “I don’t have time to argue.”  
“Too right,” said Daniel.  
“Just--”  
“Don’t worry, Darce. I’ve got this.”

I must have got myself across town in one piece, though I recall very little of what passed during the next hour. Bridget being settled and as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, I tore myself from her side to search for Daniel, who I found pacing the pavement just outside, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He turned when he heard me approach, his eyes filled with genuine concern; he must, I realized, have labored hard to disguise that fear from me earlier.  
“How’s Bridget?” he asked, hurrying toward me. “Did we get here in time?”  
“She’s—she’s fine,” I said, suddenly aware of the hitch in my breathing as I spoke and the violent tattoo my heart was beating against my ribs.  
“Darce,” said Daniel, brows raised in concern, “are you, uh, going to be okay?”  
“What? I—yes. Of course. Don’t be ridiculous.”  
“I think you need to sit down, Mark.”  
“I’m fine,” I insisted. “I’ve got to get back to Bridget. I just—had to let you know everything’s under control.”  
Daniel glared at me. “Mark, look, I know I’m the last person in the world you want right now, but I’m here, so why don’t you stop pretending you have everything under control and think about what’s best for Bridget? You need to stop and breathe for five seconds. I know how much it must be killing you not to be able to micromanage every detail of this operation, but you’re not going to be any good to Bridget unless you pull yourself together. I haven’t got a fucking clue what to do in this situation, and neither do you by the look on your face, but you’re the father here.”  
“I haven’t got time for this,” I snapped.  
“Yes you do. Christ, Darce, I don’t know how Bridget puts up with you, but she obviously wants you around for some reason, because on the way here, she made me promise I wouldn’t leave until I was sure you weren’t going to give yourself a stroke.”  
I blinked. “She—she what?”  
Daniel shrugged. “Bridget needs you in one piece, Mark. She loves you, for some unfathomable reason, and she’s not going to be happy if I let you work yourself into a nervous breakdown. You’re not walking through those doors until you’ve got a grip on yourself.” Before I could protest, he grabbed hold of my elbow and steered me toward a near-by bench. No longer trusting the strength in my legs, I sat, closing my eyes and lowering my head into my hands. I sensed Daniel take the seat beside me, and as my breathing returned to normal, I lifted my head and saw him watching me intently.  
“There, that’s better,” he said. “Now, how long have you got?”  
“It’ll be hours yet, very likely,” I said. “We’ve nothing to do just now but wait.”  
“Right then. Are you going to be okay?” I nodded. “Good. I’ll be going then, if you think you can handle things here.”  
“Yes,” I said, standing and raking a hand through my hair. “I should get back to Bridget.”  
“You’ll—you’ll let me know, won’t you? How she comes through?” asked Daniel.  
“Yes, certainly.”  
“Great.” Daniel hesitated; then laid a hand on my shoulder. “Best of luck, Darce. Really.” He let his hand rest there for another moment before he turned to leave.  
“Daniel?” He paused, glanced over his shoulder, then retraced his steps. “I just, well—thank you.” Grinning, Daniel extended a hand; automatically, I accepted it.  
“I’d tell you to take good care of her,” he said, his eyes moist, “but you were always better at that than I was.” I watched him turn slowly and walk away, blinking my eyes against the harsh, afternoon sunlight before making my way back inside.  
Back in Bridget’s room, I bent to press a kiss to her temple and brushed a few strands of hair back from her face.  
“How are you feeling?”  
She offered a wan smile. “Like I’m trying to pass a watermelon, thanks.”  
“You’re nearly there,” I said, cradling her hand between both of mine.  
“Mark, you really have no bloody idea how this works, do you?”  
“My astonishing ignorance is becoming increasingly obvious,” I replied. “but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that our first-born is displaying a tendency toward procrastination. Like mother, like child.”  
“Why are you in such a rush, anyway? Have you got a hot date?”  
I pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “Possibly.”  
“Has Daniel gone?” she asked. I nodded. “Did you thank him for me?”  
“I did, yes.”  
Bridget laughed softly. “He looked a bit frazzled. Is he okay?”  
“Yes.”  
“And you? Are you okay?” I shrugged.  
Bridget fixed her eyes on me for a long moment; then raised herself on one elbow and touched her lips to mine. “I love you, Mark,” she whispered, her eyes shining. Throat tight, I simply brought her hand to my cheek and held it there.  
“We should probably check in with your parents, and mine,” I said finally. “Just—let them know everything’s all right.”  
“Yes,” agreed Bridget. “Mum’s probably frantic.”  
“I don’t like to leave you,” I murmured, pressing her hand again.  
“I’ll be fine,” she assured me. “I don’t think anything’s likely to happen in the next fifteen minutes, except that my mother’s going to start ringing all of the switchboards demanding to speak to someone if you don’t phone her.”  
“But Bridget--”  
“Mark, go.”  
I sighed; then leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”

I stepped out to make the necessary phone calls, had a surprisingly brief conversation with Pam and my own mother, and returned just now to find Bridget still resting relatively comfortably, all things considered. I cannot begin to imagine how utterly exhausted she must feel, and she’ll need more reserves of energy before too long.

 

11.30 PM

  
A boy! A wonderful, beautiful, robust, perfect boy! We’ve decided to name him William, in an endeavor to reach a compromise between Bridget’s undying fascination with another Darcy and my fear of subjecting my son to bullying. I have apparently, until this moment, never fully appreciated the superhuman strength of womankind. If I can ever love Bridget more than I do in this moment, surely my heart will burst.  


1.00 AM

  
Nothing could have prepared me for the moment when I first held my son in my arms. Even now, with the experience of witnessing his entrance into this world just hours behind me, I can recollect only fragments of images in a swirling mist of confusion. Doctor, nurses—all come to mind as fuzzy imprints on the edges of a picture, as if the span of my entire universe shrank in that moment to accommodate only Bridget. Even as I dimly registered the doctor’s encouragement and assurances that Bridget was fine—that all was as it should be—I sensed fear churning in the pit of my stomach, rising to the back of my throat until I could taste it. I felt supremely grateful for the vice-like grip of Bridget’s hand on mine as a distraction from the nausea that I refused to let overpower me. My fingers were so inextricably wound around hers that I could no longer tell which of us clung more tightly to the other’s hand. Someone, probably the doctor, continued to urge Bridget onward, and I thought dimly that, in her usual state of mind, she might have demanded that everyone stop treating her like a bloody racehorse.  
“That’s it! That’s excellent, Bridget! Nearly there! I can see a head! One nice, great push now! And--” A lusty cry suddenly pierced the buzzing in my ears, and the tug I felt at my heart instinctively drew my eyes to the source of the noise. In hindsight, and in my newly-acquired parental wisdom, I must confess that the overwhelming desire to affirm the perfect beauty of a newborn has in part to do with the knowledge that you have, through a simple act of love, managed to create an entire human being in your own image, carrying your legacy—a living, breathing creature whom you have never before met but whose story is already so intricately intertwined with your own. Objectively, the squirming, slippery, screaming bundle didn’t immediately appear recognizably human; yet when a nurse passed him to Bridget, and she whispered, “Oh, Mark, isn’t he beautiful?”, I could only nod, eyes wet, throat too tight for words. Tentatively I reached to brush the back of my hand across the baby’s cheek, wondering at its delicate softness. With a gurgling response that I hoped was contentment, he nestled into the crook of Bridget’s arm and blinked bemusedly up at me. How wonderful—and how surreal—to see my own eyes staring back at me from a face that seemed at once strange and eerily familiar.  
“That’s your daddy,” murmured Bridget, touching her lips to his forehead as naturally as if she had performed the gesture every day of her life. “And don’t worry. Darcy men are usually much braver than he’s being right now. He’s a bit nervous.”  
“And you’re suddenly exuding inner poise,” I said dryly.  
Bridget offered a tired smile. “Wait for the drugs to wear off.” I continued to gaze in rapture at my son—the flicker of curiosity in his newly-opened eyes as they took in his world, the curling and uncurling of his tiny fingers—until Bridget’s voice interrupted my reverie.  
“You’re allowed to hold him, you know.” I examined my hands, turning them over in front of my eyes as if I’d never truly considered them before. Taking a slow, steadying breath, I reached to again place my palm against the baby’s cheek, but as I did, his own tiny, dimpled fist emerged from the folds of the blanket, and when his hand closed around my index finger, I instinctively reached to slip him into my arms, marveling at how easily he curled himself against my chest. The bubble of joy expanding inside me suddenly burst from me in a laugh as I caught one flailing, exploring fist and pressed it to my cheek. Propping herself on one elbow, Bridget watched, eyes glistening as I lost myself in the miracle of my son—the barest hint of a dimple in his cheek; the way I could cradle one small foot so perfectly within the palm of my hand; how, when I bent to brush my lips against his brow, I inhaled Bridget’s scent beneath cotton and hospital antiseptic, the very essence of her imbedded in the molecules of his skin. With the baby nestled in the crook of one arm, I slipped the other around Bridget’s shoulder’s and drew her to me, wishing I could hold my little family in the circle of my embrace forever.  
“I’d have thought your son’s triumphant entrance into the world would call for some words of wisdom, Mr Darcy,” said Bridget, her eyes twinkling.  
I smiled down at the baby. “First and foremost,” I said, “know this. You have the most amazing, most beautiful mother in the world.”  
Bridget smiled and brushed the pad of her thumb across Billy’s cheek. “Your dad is a bit biased,” she whispered.  
“Not at all,” I protested. “It’s a universally acknowledged truth.” I paused to pull her closer; then beamed down at my son again. “And another thing. Now observe carefully. If you only learn one thing from your father, let that one thing be: this is how nice boys kiss.” I caressed Bridget’s cheek with the tips of my fingers; then bent and laid my lips on hers.  
She raised one hand as I drew back, rubbing the edge of her thumb against the curve of her smile, her eyes beautifully unfocused. “I never know what to expect from you, Mark Darcy.”  
I laughed. “I’m delighted to hear it.”  
I feel truly, truly blessed. Bridget is well; our son is beautiful and healthy and strong. What a rare and precious gift, in such an imperfect world, to experience, even for a few moments, a taste of what it is to be perfectly happy.

 

Monday 10 September  
3.00 PM

  
I appear to have found a brief lull in the action in which to write. Nothing anyone has told me—nothing written in all of the books and lines of poetry that wax rhapsodic about parenthood—could have prepared me for the breathtaking, all-consuming love I feel for my son, even when he seems either unwilling or unable to grasp that humans are, by nature, not nocturnal creatures. I’m already convinced that parents who boast about their infants sleeping through the night are either lying out of some fear of being perceived bad parents or that they possess some mystical powers unbeknown to the rest of us. He is asleep at the moment, and Bridget is on the phone to Pam, so my window of time will last as long as her conversation or as long as Billy’s nap, whichever ends first. I don’t dare complain, of course, since Bridget ultimately winds up losing more sleep than I do; I try to relieve her when I can, but there are certain… tasks that I am wholly unequipped to perform.  
Sleep deprivation notwithstanding, I take daily delight in the small pleasures of parenting: holding Billy, talking to him, playing with him, reveling in his closeness. The simplest things fill me with wonderment: catching his soft, slippery limbs as they wriggle in soapy bath water; the curl of his dimpled fingers poking through a blanket; watching the way his body curls itself into the crook of Bridget’s arm as if made precisely to fit there; the warm weight of his tiny head against my chest. Fears of maternal ineptitude notwithstanding, Bridget has, as I predicted, settled into her new role with all of the grace and inner poise I know her to possess. What she might lack as of yet in experience she well makes up for with love. Yet I must confess that I appreciate that trepidation now far more than I have in the past. There is nothing like holding a sleeping infant in your arms to bring home to you the precious charge with which you have been entrusted. The instinctive trust that my child, barely 10 days old, has already placed in me, at once thrills and terrifies me. I hope and pray that I can remain worthy of that trust.

 

Saturday 15 September  
11.30 PM

  
I always knew that fatherhood would challenge me to be a stronger, better man; I never expected, however, that I might be called to rise to that challenge quite this soon. Already I am indebted to my son for teaching me about the healing power of forgiveness.  
I’ve managed to arrange my schedule to accommodate spending a few weeks at home with Bridget and the baby, but I have not, unfortunately, been entirely able to avoid the pressures of work. Necessity compelled me to spend much of today closeted in my office, preparing for an unavoidable court appearance next week. After a tedious morning reviewing paperwork until my eyes began to burn, I rested my chin in my hands and contemplated the sunlight streaming through the windows and the wide stretch of clear, blue sky beyond. I rolled my shoulders and stood, desperately in need of a break and a breath of fresh air. I found Bridget in the nursery, ensconced in the rocker, Billy at her breast. I stood and watched the pair of them for several minutes, the afternoon sun casting a warm glow around them. Bridget rocked slowly to and fro, one hand stroking Billy’s back as she spoke softly to him. Eventually she glanced up from her task and observed me in the doorway, her eyes lighting up as she smiled.  
“Mark, how long have you been standing there?”  
“Not long. I thought I’d look in on you, but I fear I’m interrupting.”  
“We’ve always got plenty of room for you,” said Bridget, shifting her position on the rocker and beckoning me nearer. Taking a seat beside her, I peeled back a corner of the blanket and rested my hand atop the baby’s head.  
“He looks more like you every day,” murmured Bridget.  
“It’s strange,” I said, “in spite of the newness of it all, that sometimes—just now—it feels so natural.”  
“Sometimes I still find the reality of it a bit disorienting,” Bridget admitted. “I’ll reach for him in the morning—hold him, and just stand there, breathing in his warm, baby scent, and I have to close my eyes and open them again, just to make sure he’s real. Then at the same time, it feels so normal, so natural to just be in that moment, holding him—like I was just waiting for this missing puzzle piece to fall into my arms, and now here he is. All that time we spent wishing, dreaming, fearing it wouldn’t happen, and now that we have Billy, it just, I don’t know--.”  
“It feels as though he’s always been here,” I said.  
“Maybe he was, in a way,” Bridget reflected. “Maybe he was just waiting for the right time to come along.” Smiling, I draped one arm across her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple as I pulled her close. Bridget shifted Billy to her other arm and snuggled against my side. “I wish you didn’t have so much work to do this weekend,” she murmured.  
“Frankly I think I’ve seen enough of it for today,” I said. “And it seems a terrible sin to neglect my family when the day holds so much promise. What do you say to an afternoon drive?”  
Bridget lifted a brow in surprise. “Really? That sounds a bit--”  
“Uncharacteristically spontaneous of me,” I finished.  
“Well, just a bit,” Bridget giggled. “But also lovely. I don’t want to take you away from anything important though.”  
“The work will still be there tomorrow,” I said.  
Bridget leaned in to peck my cheek. “Let’s do it, then. Just give me a few minutes to get ready.”  
I cast my eyes Heavenward in mock desperation. “We’re not planning to have tea with Queen Elizabeth, Bridget.”  
Bridget laughed and leaned in for another kiss, this time on the lips. “I’ll only be a few minutes,” she promised. She stood then, settling Billy in my lap. “You keep Daddy company,” she directed, cradling his little face in her hands before slipping from the room.  
“You might as well learn to play this waiting game now, son,” I said, settling back in the rocker. “It’s one of the great endurance tests of being a man.”  
“You never complain about the result!” Bridget called from down the hall, having apparently heard me. There seemed nothing for it but to allow her comment to pass without rebuttal, so I simply sat, listening to the gentle rhythm of the baby’s breathing as he slid into sleep. Lulled by the sound and the warm weight of his head against my shoulder, I eventually nodded off myself. I resurfaced to the sound of a low whimper that promised to increase in volume if I didn’t manage to discern its source within the next five seconds. I heard Bridget’s voice from downstairs and assumed she must have taken a phone call. The briefest of inspections revealed a dirty nappy to be at the source of Billy’s discomfort, and with him now peering up at me expectantly, the way forward was obvious.  
“Right,” I said, hoisting the baby against my hip as I stood. “Listen, kiddo, I’m not nearly as skilled at this as your mother, so I’d appreciate it if you keep your comments to yourself.” I sighed with relief as Billy’s whimpers began to subside. “Good man. If you’ll be brave, I’ll be brave.” The operation that followed was fairly standard and unpoetic, and I need not record it in detail. The procedure over and the baby content for the moment, we ventured downstairs.  
“Bridget?” I called. “I thought we were going out.”  
“Mark, come in here,” came her answer from the direction of the living-room. “We’ve got a surprise.”  
“Bridget, I wasn’t expecting--.” I stopped short in the doorway, blinking in confusion as I endeavored to comprehend the scene that met my eyes. The “surprise” stood as I entered the room, grinning at my obvious confusion. "Daniel?"  
“Sorry to barge in on your Saturday, Darce. Just thought I’d—you know—stop by to get a look at the new arrival, and offer my congratulations in person.”  
“Thank you,” I managed.  
“He’s definitely a Darcy,” Daniel observed, scrutinizing Billy with an approving nod.  
“I’m—glad to see you,” I said.  
“And a little surprised, admit it.”  
“Well, yes, that too,” I agreed. “but I’ve been hoping for a chance to thank you again—for all your help.”  
Daniel shrugged. “Don’t mention it. Least I could do, really.” Over his shoulder, Bridget observed the exchange from her position on the sofa; our gazes locked for an instant, and she urged me onward with an encouraging smile. Shifting my gaze back to Daniel, I swallowed, the words I wanted to speak forming a hard knot in my stomach.  
“Mark, listen,” said Daniel, hands thrust deep in his pockets as he regarded me. “I know how much you hate to be in anyone’s debt—especially mine, but the thing is, you don’t owe me anything. I was glad I could be here for Bridget—for both of you. Maybe I did what I did to try to mend fences; Hell, I don’t know, but I don’t want some grandiose gesture of forgiveness from you, okay?” Needing time to compose myself, I glanced down at Billy, now observing Daniel with calm curiosity. I studied his clear, trusting gaze as he took in the measure of the man I had once called my best friend.  
“Don’t apologize,” I said.  
“I know it’s a bit late for one, honestly, and anyway you don’t want--”  
“Daniel,” I interrupted, “that’s not—I mean, that is, it isn’t that I don’t want your apology. It’s that—well, I’ve just realized I don’t need it.”  
“Crikey, Darce, you’re not serious?”  
I nodded. “There’s a lot I could say—a lot I’ve wanted to say for years, but what’s the point of drudging all of that up now? We can’t alter the past by reliving it, and in any case, I think the fact that we’re standing here, having this conversation--”  
“And you haven’t punched me in the face yet,” Daniel broke in.  
“I have an example to set for my son,” I said, “but yes, that in and of itself speaks volumes. We can’t go back, but maybe we can move forward.”  
Grinning, Daniel reached to grasp my hand. “Truce, mate?” Still cradling the baby, I ignored Daniel’s proffered hand and strode forward to embrace him.  
“You’re both idiots,” came Bridget’s voice, choked with tears. “You know that? Complete idiots!” Now sobbing, she leapt from her seat and rushed to fling her arms around the both of us. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get you to this point? You couldn’t just have done that years ago and spared me so much trouble!” Laughing, I pulled her closer and bent to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Don’t you laugh, Mark Darcy! You’ve given me more trouble--”  
“Sh, darling,” I soothed. “I know. I’m sorry. Would it make you feel any better if I told you you were right?”  
Bridget frowned. “Maybe, but really, I’d begun to give the pair of you up as a lost cause.”  
“You have your son to thank,” I said, smiling at Daniel over the top of Billy’s head. “And that reminds me.” I looked to Bridget again; her gaze held mine for a moment, and she nodded. No one with an intimate knowledge of my character would call me an impulsive man; the idea that occurred to me in that moment seemed wildly, uncharacteristically impulsive, and yet as I looked at Bridget, I saw, in the comprehension and approval shining in her eyes, just how long the notion had been taking shape. There seemed no more appropriate way to honor the role Billy has played in realizing this reconciliation. “Daniel, I—that is, we thought—we’d like to ask you—to be the baby’s godfather.”  
Caught off balance, Daniel took a step back, one brow raised as he considered my words. “Okay,” he said slowly, “just so I’m sure I’ve understood you here, you’re asking me to act as a paragon of moral fortitude and potential legal guardian?”  
I grinned. “You’re already giving me cause to regret this, Cleaver, but yes.”  
“Right then.” With surprising confidence, Daniel lifted the baby into his own arms. “Now then, little man, why don’t you and I get better acquainted? First thing you need to know is: your dad’s a bloody old curmudgeon when he puts his mind to it.” Beside me, Bridget giggled. “But he’s the best friend I ever had, and a good man. Don’t you ever forget that.”  
It seems absurd now to think that I’ve resisted forgiving Daniel for so long—or rather, resisted accepting that I have, in my own way, been gradually forgiving him all these years. It’s been easier convincing myself that my gradual softening toward him has been on Bridget’s account—through some sense of begrudging gratitude I owe him for showing himself, where Bridget is concerned, to be somewhat less reprehensible than I thought him. Now, of course, I have realized the truth in what Bridget has long been trying to convince me; Daniel is too inextricably bound up in my life to be disentangled. Had I loved him less, I might have unwound that thread more easily. Yet I have clung to it, however reluctantly, however subconsciously, because perhaps some part of me knew that it would find a way to reunite us.

 

Sunday 23 September  
12.00 AM

  
Billy has survived his first trip to Grafton Underwood with all of the Darcy endurance I expected of him. Bridget has felt terribly guilty about the fact that Colin has, until now, not had the opportunity to see the baby. Pam managed to accompany my parents on their visit last week, but Colin unfortunately didn’t feel equal to it, and Bridget hasn’t felt quite comfortable enough to withstand the long drive. The other day, however, she insisted that we couldn’t put the visit off any longer—a point with which I had to agree despite my reservations about her readiness for the day’s exertion.  
We spent the entire day with Bridget’s parents, with my parents joining us for lunch. Had Bridget not been intent on maintaining inner poise, so as not to spoil a day already fraught with mixed emotions, being hovered over by both her own mother and mine might have driven her to murder. When the time approached for the baby to be nursed, Colin, my father, and I discreetly withdrew to the back garden to grant Bridget some privacy, but not before my ears were privy to a predictable back-and-forth.  
“Darling, you’ll smother him if you do it like that. Here.”  
“Mum, I think I can manage.”  
“I’m not sure he’s going to get enough,” Pam insisted.  
“Maybe he favors the left,” my mother interjected.  
“At this rate, if they don’t let her get on with it, it’ll be a miracle if that child doesn’t starve,” observed Colin.  
I shrugged. “I have to give Bridget tremendous credit; the learning curve through all of this is really quite steep, but she’s been remarkably self-possessed. The mothers should probably just let her alone to sort it out.”  
“The thing you’ve got to understand, son,” said my father, apparently prepared to dispense paternal wisdom, “is that women are genetically predisposed to interfere in any situation that comes under their noses.”  
I smiled. “Well, if you put it that way, when you consider that such interference, in its own way, eventually led to my marriage, I’m inclined to think we’d be wise to just let them carry on. If it be madness, yet there is method in it.”  
“That seems a reasonable approach to understanding my daughter,” laughed Colin.  
“I didn’t say I understood her; I’ve just learned to accept that I likely never shall.” We spent a pleasant interlude discussing all manner of subjects that had absolutely nothing to do with childcare until the feeding frenzy subsided. After my parents departed, Bridget and I remained for a while longer to give Colin some uninterrupted time with Billy.  
Gazing down with moist eyes at the baby cradled in his lap, Colin gently laid a hand on his head. “You’re a sturdy little lad, aren’t you,” he said. “And that’s important, because you’re going to have a very important job, my boy. I want you to take good care of your mother. She’s the most important lady in your life.” Beside me, Bridget observed the exchange through a blur of tears, and I slid an arm around her shoulders to pull her close.  
“Don’t think,” I whispered, kissing the top of her head. “Don’t fret about tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. We have this—we have right now. Just live in this moment.” She nodded, giving my hand an appreciative squeeze. Deciding to give her a few minutes with her father, I briefly caressed her cheek before slipping away.  
In the kitchen, I found Pam drying her hands on a tea-towel, staring absently around the room. “I hope I’m not intruding,” I murmured.  
Pam turned on hearing my voice and smiled. “Not at all, dear. How are Colin and the baby getting on?”  
“Famously.”  
“We’re so glad you came, Mark. So very glad.”  
“I’m only sorry we couldn’t come sooner.”  
“It couldn’t be helped,” sighed Pam.  
“Colin seems well, all things considered,” I ventured.  
“He has decent days and … not so decent days, but he’s been in better spirits these last few weeks, with the excitement about the baby.”  
“We’ll come as often as we can,” I said. “I promise.”  
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” said Bridget, appearing in the doorway, “but you both need to come see this.” As we returned to the living-room, I heard Colin’s voice, clear and strong, one hand supporting the baby’s head, the other holding a book from which he seemed to be reading aloud.  
“If you can keep your head when all about you  
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,  
if you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,  
but make allowance for their doubting too …”  
Bridget reached for my hand, and I smiled down at our interlocked fingers as we stood listening.  
“Rewards and Fairies seems a bit advanced for his age,” I quipped as Colin concluded and raised his eyes from the page.  
“Best manly advice I could think of,” he replied; then held the volume out to Bridget. “Maybe you’ll read it to him again someday. Tell him—well …” He shrugged.  
Bridget took the book; then leaned down to hug Colin tightly. “We will, Dad. I promise.”

Neither Bridget nor I spoke much on the drive home, and after settling Billy down for the night, I decided to give into my own fatigue and turn in early. I skimmed the pages of a book until my eyes began to grow heavy, but when I glanced at the clock and noticed it was approaching 11.00, I thought to see what might be keeping Bridget. I found her downstairs, curled on the sofa with a cup of tea, her eyes distant.  
“Bridget?”  
She lifted her head, her pensive expression relaxing into a smile when she noticed me.  
“Hi.”  
“Bridget, are you all right?”  
She nodded. “I’m okay. I just—needed a little time to clear my head.”  
“You know I’m here if you want to talk,” I said, crossing the room to stand behind her and resting a hand on her shoulder. She patted the space beside her, leaning in to kiss my cheek as I sat.  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to avoid you.”  
“You don’t need to apologize,” I said gently.  
“I’m glad we had today,” murmured Bridget, snuggling beneath my arm.  
“So am I.”  
“And you know, I feel oddly—I don’t know—at peace with everything now. I so wanted Dad to be able to see the baby, and now he has it just—it makes whatever we might have to face a bit easier. The only thing that really makes me sad now is that Billy might not have a chance to really remember Dad.”  
“You’ll help him to remember, love,” I whispered, resting my chin on the top of her head.  
I’ve promised Bridget we’ll visit her parents with the baby as often as we can, and—crikey, baby’s awake. Bridget is, probably for the first time in almost a month, fast asleep. I haven’t the heart to wake her. Right. Looks like I’ve got the night shift tonight. 


	11. eggsbenni221

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

A Labor of Love: a Bridget Jones Fic  
by Eggsbenni221, in 10 chapters+epilogue  
Rating: T  
Chapter Word Count: 1541  
Summary: see [chapter 1](http://eggsbenni221.livejournal.com/15534.html)

  


Epilogue (Bridget)

  


> I was waiting for so long  
> For a miracle to come.  
> Everyone told me to be strong.  
> Hold on and don’t shed a tear.
> 
> Through the darkness and good times  
> I knew I’d make it through.  
> And the world thought I’d had it all  
> But I was waiting for you.- Celine Dion, “A New Day has Come”

Sunday 23 September  
12.05 AM

  
Just woke up to find Mark gone, probably to see to Billy and not wake me. (Love Mark). Drove to Grafton Underwood today to visit with Mum and Dad, and so that Dad could have his first look at the baby. Mark was an absolute tower of strength, as always, obvs. Really feel as if haven’t fully appreciated how wonderfully supportive he’s been, esp during childbirth.  
Despite focusing all thought vibes on own uterus (entirely understandable under circumstances) had a moment in the middle of entire ordeal of labor to be v proud of Mark for refusing to leave my side, except when insisted that he really should get something to eat. Would have been completely pointless and unhelpful if, after hours of chivalrous devotion, he fainted from lack of nourishment. (Of course, he almost did anyway when first caught sight of mucus-covered alien emerging from self that was actually Billy). V proud of him for keeping his head about him in manner of soldier or embodiment of Kipling poem or similar. Of course came over all stern and Markish when I ventured to congratulate him on his show of masculine fortitude.  
“Really, Bridget. You needn’t act as if I’m not in the habit of being remarkably self-possessed under pressure.” These were strong words for a man who looked every moment as if he were on the point of either collapsing or being sick. Still, decided best way to award him supportive, brave husband points would be to keep self from pointing this out.  
Hmm, really wonder if should check on Mark. Not that don’t trust his parenting abilities, obvs. Is not as if have more experience than he does, though suppose maybe if counted gestational period of baby could technically give self a nine-month head-start. V unfair though, really, as crying and eating trays of dairy milk doesn’t really count as parenting experience.

 

12.15 AM

  
Really worried about Billy though. Feel v attuned to all physical and emotional vibrations of child after carrying him round for nine months in manner of baby kangaroo or similar. Mark entirely responsible father though, and is midnight, so not as if he’d take Billy out and leave him in a shop.

 

12.25 AM

  
But what if Billy needs feeding? Mark perfectly capable father, obvs, but not currently equipped to provide child with necessary nourishment as not woman and does not have breasts, so cannot express milk. Hmm, think vocabulary of breast-feeding v odd. ‘Express’ makes it sound as if self’s breasts are some sort of baby protein smoothie bar or something. Am human being, not lactating factory. Who coined the term ‘express milk’ anyway? Sounds as if breasts have emotions, like individual entities with own thoughts and feelings. Now imagine all breast-feeding women dancing through streets of London waving their wobbly bits about and singing “I’m coming out” in manner of Dianna Ross. Yes, we’re coming out! WE want the world to know—right, going to check on boys.

 

12.30 AM

  
Have just stumbled across guilty secret of husband’s—quite literally as actually tripped over it getting out of bed. Suppose must have knocked it off of bedside table. Turned on lamp and bent to retrieve offending object, cursing v quietly under breath so baby monitor wouldn’t pick up not-safe-for-infant language, and discovered it to be a book. It lay open at my feet, face-down, but as I turned it over, my eye suddenly caught a page of handwriting—Mark’s handwriting. It can’t be—but yes! Ha! Have found Mark’s diary! Poetic justice! (Really shouldn’t read though, as am not vindictive, vengeance-seeking wife, and is not as if Mark has anything to hide. Besides, accidental diary discovery did lead to snowy kiss and passionate whirlwind relationship culminating in marriage, so haven’t ever really held it against him). Am going to be virtuous saint-style wife and allow Mark his privacy. Tralalala.

 

12.35 AM

  
V curious though. Mark keeping a diary is v different from self keeping one, as tell Mark everything anyway. Wonder if maybe should just have a peek. Just mild curiosity. Not as if am snooping anyway as Mark is my husband and I know all of his dearest concerns. (I do, don’t I? Of course I do). Right. Going to practice saint-style restraint.

 

12.40 AM

  
Just one page, maybe, to satisfy curiosity. Not, obvs, to get even with husband for discovering my description of him as having giant Gherkin shoved up his backside. (he did, though. Still does, sort of, if I’m being honest. Love him anyway).

 

 

1.00 AM

  
Oh! Mark! Heart suddenly overflowing with love for husband in manner of ocean. Diary seems to go back only as far as January of this year, just before I learned I was pregnant with Billy, and after we found out, Mark decided to chronicle whole experience of expectant parenthood. Have always known how much he loves me, obvs, but Mark also not the most demonstratively affectionate person in world, so seeing him record his feelings like this, in such painstaking detail, is like holding his heart in my hands. Can’t let him know I’ve seen this. He’d be terribly embarrassed. Just going to set it right down where he left it.

 

1.05 AM

  
But really can’t resist teasing him a bit about it. Why waste an opportunity? Where has he got to anyway? Should really see if baby needs anything.

 

1.30 AM

  
Billy asleep again. Now back in bed, snuggled beside Mark, warm and safe under his arm. Mmm, still love to watch him sleep. After peeking into (and crying over) Mark’s diary, tucked it beneath my arm and went into the nursery to make sure he was managing with Billy. Heard his voice as I approached, murmuring something to the baby. Paused in the doorway, eyes filling with tears as I took in the sight of my husband, seated in the rocker with Billy nestled against his chest. A book lay open in his lap—the book Dad gave us today, and I brushed away tears as I listened to the gentle rhythm of his voice as he read.  
“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,  
or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch,  
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,  
if all men count with you, but none too much;  
If you can fill the unforgiving minute  
with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,  
yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,  
and—which is more—you’ll be a man, my son!”

“If we keep this going,” I said, “he’ll grow up to be a Kipling scholar.”  
Raising his eyes from the page, Mark’s gaze met mine, and he smiled. “Did we wake you?”  
“I thought I’d just look in and see how you boys were getting on. Everything okay?”  
Mark nodded. “We’re fine here.”  
Crossing the room, I sat down beside him and bent to kiss the baby’s forehead. “He seems quiet now.”  
“I tried everything I could think of, and then--” Mark gestured to the book. “I don’t know why I thought it would work, but I was desperate.”  
“Interesting selection,” I observed.  
“I’d hoped he wouldn’t wake you,” said Mark, draping an arm across my shoulders.  
“It’s all right. I thought about going back to bed, but I was distracted by some interesting reading material myself.” Withdrew the diary, and Mark studied it for several moments before giving a resigned shrug.  
“I wondered how long it might take you to find that.”  
Surprised at his nonchalance, I arched a brow. “You’re not upset? I mean, Mark, there are feelings in here. Actual emotions.”  
“For Heaven’s sake, Bridget, I’m not an automaton.”  
I laughed. “No, but this is—I mean, it’s terribly sweet, but it’s—I don’t know—a bit unlike you.”  
One corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. “It’s only a diary.”  
“But this, Mark Darcy,” I declared, leaning in to kiss him, “is most certainly not full of crap.”  
“I would have to agree with you,” murmured Mark, brushing his thumb across my cheek.  
V comforting, in a way, to know that mark has been just as nervous about being a parent as I’ve been—not that I didn’t think he was, but think he really did his best to conceal it from me. Stupid really, but can’t fault him, exactly, as only doing it to give me less of a burden to carry. AS much as his insistence on taking all of that weight on his own shoulders irritates me, it’s also one of the things I love most about Mark. And from what I’ve seen thus far, I do think he’s going to be a fantastic dad. I think we’ve both been getting on tolerably, actually; nearly a month, and the baby’s not been left in a shop. Excellent start. 


End file.
